


would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

by Fionakevin073



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF, The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV), The White Princess (TV), The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Miscarriage, rewriting Emma Frost's shitty feminism, some sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: Lady Margaret used to say that if she and Henry married, the male Tudor line would die with him. She wasn’t wrong.
Relationships: Catherine of Aragon/Arthur Tudor, Catherine of Aragon/Edward Stafford 3rd Duke of Buckingham, Catherine of Aragon/Henry VIII of England
Comments: 81
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have no idea what on earth this is - it is messy but the idea took hold of me, so here we are. Okay, to be quite honest, this show makes me so angry in lots of ways, as does Emma Frost. Her definition of 'feminism' is really questionable and makes me mad - like, she took the actual empowering facts we know about Catherine and completely twisted them, like her loving Mary and educating her and always advocating for her. Now, my version of Catherine is definitely different from real life Catherine so lol what can I say? The finale pissed me off too, but the costumes and acting are super great and I love this show for that. Also, fuck Henry. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this. I've tentatively set the chapter count at 2, but it may end up being a three parter. Commentary is everything! Also, trigger warning - there are descriptions and references of miscarriages, and there is a scene of non-consensual drugging, though no violence or assault takes place. 
> 
> Thanks again guys! I hope you enjoy this clusterfuck - I have no idea when I'll next update because I have so many things due for school, but hopefully it'll be soon. Stay safe guys! 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Fionakevin073

i.

It is one thing to never have known love or happiness; it is quite another to have it taken from you, to watch it slip through your fingers like dust. It is a slow, painful death, as though someone is slowly plunging a knife into her heart inch by inch, prolonging her agony.

Catherine is both overwhelmed by her pain and numb to it.

_Camelot,_ she used to say. _This is our Camelot._

She thinks of Arthur now, of their brief marriage, and it scarcely feels real.

She is no Guinevere – she is not sure she ever was.

Now that Catherine thinks of it, she isn’t sure this was ever a Camelot either. Their short few years of happiness, with their boy. Their Henry.

She dreams of him still, her lost boy. His crying. The feel of his mouth on her breast as she nourished him. Even after Flodden, of the son she lost then. Even after Mary.

She is dreaming of him when she wakes, a cramp paining in her belly.

“No,” she gasps, pressing a hand to her stomach, trying to soothe it with her touch. “No.”

Before, she used to feel for Henry sleeping beside her, and he would wrap his arms around her, comfort her. Love her. Those days are gone, and she is alone.

_Please God,_ she prays, biting onto her pillow to mask her sobs. _Please._

The cramp continues and Catherine knows. Oh, how she knows. She manages to force herself out of bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. A walk would help. They’d helped before.

“Why?” she whispers. “I would love this child until the end of the Earth, would make him a Christian Prince. Is my sin so great? God, please. Please, please, please—”

She holds onto the wall to support her as she stumbles down the hall. The light from the candles and torches blinds her and makes her squint. Mayhaps her eyes are swollen enough already from the tears already seeping from her eyes.

Catherine hugs her robe closer to her body, takes care to stay close to her chambers, not near the court lest someone see and tell Henry. Tell Henry that she is losing yet another son. He will blame her when he finds out. He will. And she will lose him even more than she already has, and he will drift farther and farther away from her with more betrayals and distrust and suspicion.

Catherine shies away from the sound of footsteps, bites down on her lip to muffle her cries of pain. _Oh God,_ she thinks. _Mother help me._ She tries to hide behind the corner, but the figure spots her.

“Your grace,” Stafford gasps, concerned.

The candlelight casts shadows on his face as he approaches.

“Shh,” she murmurs, glancing warily around her. In her pain, she had walked farther than she intended.

“Are you alright, my lady? I shall fetch your ladies—”

“No!” she exclaims, sharper than she intended. A deeper ache blossoms in her stomach. “Please, don’t—”

“Your grace—”

“Help me,” she begs, for no one else will. Lisa with her family, with her sons. Rosa far away. Her mother dead, her father betrayed her. Her sister locked away. Her husband no longer loving her. God has forsaken her.

“Please,” she cries. “Please, help me. Take me to my rooms.”

Stafford glances nervously around him. “My lady, that would not be proper—”

“Please,” she reaches around blindly for him with one hand, the other placed on her stomach. “Please.”

Catherine begins to tremble violently, and Stafford sweeps her into his arms with a gentleness that would later surprise her. She buries her face in his neck, feels blood begin to sweep through her nightgown. His steps are quick as he takes her back to her rooms.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs into her hair. “You’re alright, my queen.”

He places her gently onto the bed, moves back to close the door. She aches with the loss of his heat.

“Why?” she repeats. Her hands are sticky with blood. “Why do I keep losing all my children? Why?”

“I’m losing him, my lord Stafford, I’ve lost my husband, my sons—”

“No, your grace,” he says, crouching a little so he can embrace her. She buries her face in his doublet, clutches onto his shoulders. It has been so long since human touch has warmed her, and she cannot help but choke on emotion and gratefulness. “You are beloved by the people, by the court. By me. You have a wonderful, beautiful, daughter.”

“Is my sin so great?” she whispers into his chest. He stiffens at her words. “Was my sin so great?”

She wanted Henry, the handsome son of her dreams. She wanted the throne she had been promised since she was a girl, is that so wrong? She was not cruel or violent. Catherine has loved and been loved and wished only the best for her people. Is one lie enough to condemn her? One night of passion between husband and wife? Between two people so young, so inexperienced, so desperate to right the wrongs of the past and begin anew?

“No, your grace,” he whispers, his lips graze her forehead.

Catherine almost flinches at the accidental touch. _I will love you,_ Henry had told her, after the death of their first boy. _And love you and we will have another son and he will be strong, because we are so strong._

But her husband isn’t here. He’s off with one of his mistresses, left her alone in darkness, to bear the weight of her grief.

“Your grace, I must fetch the physician—”

“No,” she says sharply, pulling back and grabbing onto his hands. “No. You cannot – he will blame me; he will get rid of me and my daughter. No. No.”

“My lady, you are unwell—”

“I am strong,” she says, shaking her head. She disentangles herself from his embrace. “I am strong, and I shall deal with it. Alone.”

He stands and takes a step back from the bed.

“Your grace,” he says quietly, voice filled with sympathy and something she cannot quite identify. “You are never alone.”

Catherine stares at him in the darkness, disbelieving.

“Please,” she whispers finally. The blood feels as though it has finally stopped. “Leave me. Say nothing.”

“Your grace—”

“I am strong, Lord Stafford,” she interrupts, though she feels anything but. “I will survive this.”

“I never disputed that, my lady,” he responds quietly. “Never that.”

He is a handsome man, she thinks. She can understand why Rosa lay with him, why she fell for him despite how inappropriate it was—

“You must go,” she says suddenly, letting go of his calloused hands. “If anyone were to find you here—”

“My lady, I cannot leave you—”

“Yes, you can. You must.”

He lingers a moment, watching her with concern. Only Lina looks at her that way now, and it breaks her heart.

“Go,” she says, swiping at the tear stains on her cheeks.

He leaves, and Catherine spends the night scrubbing her nightdress, so the blood disappears. Her fingers are raw, almost bloody, but she does it all the same.

ii.

When Stafford corners her at court the next morn, Catherine can barely look at him, this man that had seen her at her weakest.

“Your grace,” he murmurs, hand at her elbow. “You should be resting.”

Catherine eyes him sharply.

“I am fine,” she refutes, stepping away from his touch. “My Lord, there is no need for concern.”

Henry had yet to touch her at all today. Only her ladies had, and their hands made Catherine want to scream – even Lina, who she loved.

“You must see a physician,” he tells her stubbornly. Catherine glances around to ensure that no one – especially Wolsey – is taking note of this conversation. “Please, your grace.”

Catherine shakes her head.

“No,” she says, her heart dropping at the thought of Henry’s reaction. “I cannot – not yet. Please. Leave it alone.”

Catherine does not yet know what her plan is, how she can possibly manage to explain this – to _survive_ it. She truly does not; the longer she can keep the world at bay, the better. There is so much. Too much.

“Your grace—”

Catherine stiffens at the sight of two of her ladies.

“My lord,” she says, moving to meet them.

He follows her.

  
“Your grace,” he says. “You may yet bear the King a son. But if you do not give Henry a son, then that is God’s will also. Try to find comfort in that mystery your grace”

Catherine knows without looking that her ladies have heard him.

“Careful, Sir,” she says, voice low. She urges the man – this kind, oblivious man, to watch his tongue. Catherine is not sure she would be able to save him otherwise. “I must join my husband as he breaks his fast.”

She moves to enter the private dining room, but he latches onto her arm.

Catherine glances at him meaningfully. _I cannot bear this,_ she thinks. _I cannot bear his pity._

She tugs her arm out of his grasp and leaves to find Henry.

\--

The smell of food makes Catherine nauseous. She watches Henry bite into a boiled egg and has to clutch onto the arm of her chair in order to swallow down the bile that rises in her throat.

“The people of London have taken note of your warnings,” he tells her gruffly, swiping at his beard for crumbs. “You have done God’s work in persecuting these heretics.”

Catherine smiles at him weakly.

_Have I?_ she thinks. _I lost my child the night I did it – is that why? Was Lord Stafford right? Was Lina?_

“I need air, your majesty, if you will excuse me,” she says hurriedly, rising out of her chair.

Her fingers clutch the air around her like a lifeline as she descends into the gardens.

“Leave me,” she says over her shoulder to the two ladies that followed her. “Leave me be.”

Catherine manages to find a place to sit down in the gardens and buries her face in her hands. She has always been a dutiful believer in God. Said her prayers and defended Him. Her mother was Isabella of Castille, the greatest Catholic monarch the world had ever seen.

And yet, Catherine had lied. She lied in order to be Queen of England, and she has lost all her children save one. Her marriage to Henry is cursed, then. She defends His church and yet she loses her child. Mayhaps no matter what she does, God has forsaken her.

Catherine cannot help but recall her conversation with Lina.

_Will you start burning children too?_ She had asked. _Parents? Wives, husbands?_

Catherine reaches for her necklace. She is defending God’s Church – it is the only way, and yet, there is a void in her body. Stafford had called God’s ways mysterious – perhaps she should listen to him. And yet, Catherine can only remember the pain from the night before, the blood, the punishment.

_If I did not know any better,_ she thinks, standing abruptly. _I would think that I was dead and in hell already._

“Catherine! Catherine!”

_What now?_ She thinks, rubbing her hands together. She turns to look at Maggie, who is flustered and terrified.

“Lord Stafford,” the elder woman breathes, and Catherine feels her heart drop. “Lord Stafford has been arrested under orders of the King.”

iii.

The Tower is a cold, dreary place. Catherine has never liked it, and though she had a strenuous relationship with her mother-in-law at best, Catherine had always pitied her for dying in such a lifeless place.

Catherine is led to Stafford’s cell by two guards down a narrow hallway lit by a few torches. The past few hours – the past few years, have felt like something out of a nightmare. Wolsey. Of course it was Wolsey. Just when Catherine thought she had formed an alliance with that wretched man, he commits plots such as these.

_And Henry is lost to him,_ she thinks mournfully. _Maybe not,_ a hopeful voice whispers. _He listened to you regarding Mary’s engagement to Charles; he even spared the rioters because you begged._

_No,_ she instantly refutes. _He spared them because I was with child, if I had not been…_

They would be dead, and Mary would be sold off to the Dauphin. Whenever Catherine imagines what Henry’s reaction will be when she tells him of her miscarriage, terror springs in her heart.

_Annulment,_ her mind whispers. The word has haunted her ever since she learned of Meg’s plans. _Annulment._

Oh, how she missed the days when the thought of Henry annulling their marriage was preposterous.

The guard’s keys clang together loudly as he unlocks the door to Stafford’s cell. Catherine sweeps into the room, her eyes searching for the dark-haired lord.

“My lord,” she calls out. His black doublet has been removed, leaving him only in a white tunic and his hose. His hands are shackled.

“Your grace,” he breathes, rising from his chair. “Why are you here?”

Catherine waits for the door to close before she replies.

“I had to be here,” she replies. “I read the charges against you – they are absurd.”

Stafford snorts.

“Indeed, they are,” he agrees, much too casually in Catherine’s view.

“This is Wolsey’s doing,” she rants, shaking her head. “I will speak to Henry on your behalf, you know I will, and Wolsey.” She stops, takes a deep breath. “Wolsey and I have an understanding; I believe he can be reasoned with.”

Stafford shakes his head. “Henry will not kill me, your grace. Humiliate me, for certain. Wolsey may be whispering in his ear, but I have his heart. I am sure of it.”

_I was once sure of his love too,_ she wishes to say but does not. _I once believed he would never not love me and look at us now._

Catherine moves closer to him.

“Your trial will occur on the morrow,” she breathes.

“That’s fast,” he murmurs, eyeing her carefully. “All will be well; Henry will not kill me. Merely keep me in the tower until I know my place.”

“Even so,” she says. “His mood has darkened. You—you must beg forgiveness, my Lord Stafford. Beg mercy of the King, cry your apologies and plead for forgiveness. You must.”

Catherine cannot help but tremble with her desperation. If the man before her dies, it will signify the end of anything good left in Henry. He will be at last out of her reach. And beyond that, Stafford – despite Rosa – is a good, faithful man. She could not bear to see him die, especially after he had comforted her so. She implores him with her gaze.

“Very well,” he agrees softly, edging closer to her. “I will beg. For you, my queen.”

His gaze is almost reverent as he stares at her, his voice softening, as though she is something precious. Catherine has never noticed his gentleness before, the intensity of his expressions. She knew him to be a man of passion, of integrity, to have love for his country; she had never had it fully directed at herself before.

His eye flickers down to her lips so quickly she almost misses it. _He desires me,_ Catherine realises. It makes her insides shake, just a little. She observes his expression carefully. He does not look treacherous or lecherous; no, his expression is kind and gentle. Catherine has not felt desired in a long time.

_Very well,_ he just said. _I will beg. For you, my queen._

Not for Henry, not for his own sake or his families, but her.

Catherine feels her heartbeat quicken.

“Stafford,” she says suddenly, panic in her throat. “Please—I cannot lose such a loyal friend.”

“You won’t,” he tells her gently.

Catherine stares at him.

_I need you,_ she thinks, though for what she is not quite sure. Catherine takes one of his hands in her own and squeezes it before stepping away.

“Thank you,” she tells him.

They are soon distracted by the coming of the guards with the Lutheran reformer and Catherine leaves soon after.

She prays for hours on the cold floor when she returns to the palace. She kneels in front of the cross and begs for guidance.

“Please,” she whispers in front of the cross. “I want peace for England, stability. I want a son -- I need one. Please, God. Please. I no longer know what is right anymore. I will do as you bid.”

_Give me a son,_ Henry had demanded. _I need a son. One last chance._

Catherine clutches at her stomach. Her womb is empty now; burning the Protestant’s books did not work, begging Henry did not work, being an obedient wife did not resolve her issues either. She had borne his infidelities with relative grace, had she not? Had loved him and fought for him and defended him and counselled him as best she knew.

Did her lie – that one, single lie, condemn her completely?

Catherine no longer knew.

iv.

Catherine does not eat before the trial; she cannot. Wolsey has contracted Thomas Boleyn to assist him in his prosecution of Lord Stafford, and Catherine can think only of the latter’s man words; _Have you read the mood at court lately, your grace?_

_This is no Camelot,_ she thinks, staring at the lines of councilmen and jury. Wolsey’s red robes flash in the corner of her eye. She glances at Henry, whose head rests on his chin. From this angle, she can see the growing signs of a double chin poorly hidden under his beard. The growing redness of his eyes.

_His beauty is fading,_ she observes, looking away. _Due to lust and drink and greed._

Catherine frowns and shakes her head. It would not do to think ill of Henry. She loved him, and yet, she was also fearful of him. She stiffens against the back of her chair when the guards announce the arrival of Lord Stafford.

He looks remarkably calm, considering the circumstances.

_For you, my queen, I will beg._

Catherine smiles at him gently, trying to hide her fear.

Henry is no monster – he will not kill him. It is unthinkable. And yet, Wolsey –

Catherine sours as the cardinal begins his speech. He had dismissed her when she told him to drop the charges; of course, he had. She had been a fool to think she could reason with him, that they were allies, that he could protect her interests. No, Wolsey thought only of himself.

“Thus, we can see,” Wolsey drawls. “That Lord Stafford consulted necromancers and witches to determine the fate of the King and see if he would have any heirs.”

“Childish gossip,” Catherine refutes instantly, scarcely believing the words coming out of his mouth. She looks at Henry, who looks impartial. _How is this happening?_ She thinks. _This cannot be real._ “Lord Stafford is a God-fearing Christian who attends mass every day. In fact, in France I believe he was the first one to offer the King’s victory up to God.”

“And yet,” Wolsey interrupts, pacing around the room, circling Stafford as though he was his prey. “The Good Friar tells us that Lord Stafford went to the monastery at St. Tristan to ascertain if there was a book speaking of the death of the King.”

Gasps echo in the room.

“Is there such a book, cardinal?” Catherine demands.

A flicker of frustration appears on Wolsey’s face.

“There is not,” he allows.

“Pity,” Catherine comments. “If there was, I too would be intrigued to see it.”

A few of the men laugh, and Catherine’s heart rises when she hears Henry make a small sound of amusement, too.

Her satisfaction dies when Thomas Boleyn steps in beside Wolsey.

“I heard a most distressing report from one of the Queen’s ladies,” he begins.

Catherine looks amongst the crowd to see if those two wretched women where there. They were not the ladies she trusted, like Lina or Maggie. After Bessie, she had kept the others at a distance, including Boleyn’s own daughters.

“This lady overheard a conversation Stafford had with the Queen. He said that – Stafford saying that—” he hesitates. “I can hardly bare to say these words; Stafford said that if God were never to give the King an heir, it would be God’s judgement upon him. He said that if another Prince were to die, it would sit right with him.” 

Catherine meets Stafford’s gaze then, who appears incredulous and furious.

“I never said that!” he exclaims, as though she needs convincing.

“You were heard, Sir—”

“I never said it – I was merely trying to comfort the Queen.”

Catherine can barely force air into her lungs. _I am doomed,_ she thinks. _We both are._

“Comfort?” Henry asks. “Why was the Queen in need of comfort?”

Stafford appears too flustered to reply.

“Catherine,” Henry says, looking at her. “Why were you in need of comfort?”

Her mind is full of images of the babe she lost, his blue and purple body – and Henry, her jewel, who’s life had vanished like a candle flame.

“I never said that,” Stafford repeats. “I merely said that God’s ways were mysterious.”

“He knows how anxious I am to give you a son and heir,” Catherine voices, returning Henry’s gaze. “He must have noticed how careful and worried I am for this child – his choice of words may have been poor, but I do believe that his intentions were pure, your majesty.”

“Pure?” Wolsey scoffs. “Where you not seen in the Queen’s privy chambers late at night recently, Lord Stafford?”

As Catherine opens her mouth in outrage, Stafford catches her eye and subtly shakes his head.

_Don’t,_ he mouths. But Catherine cannot simply watch him be dragged down because of a secret in which she asked him to keep.

“The Queen was tired,” Stafford replies. “Her ladies were not present, and she asked me to escort her to her rooms.”

“The Queen was tired,” Wolsey repeats.

“Why did you not summon her ladies, Stafford?” Henry asks.

Catherine cannot bear it.

“What are you implying, Cardinal Wolsey?” she demands, glaring at the man.

Wolsey turns to look at her.

“Your grace?”

“Lord Stafford saw that my ladies were not with me and simply escorted me to my rooms when I asked. I felt ill because of the King’s babe in my womb and needed support. That is all. I will not hear such slanderous implications about my character, Cardinal.”

She turns to Henry.

“How can you allow this?” she asks. “To let him imply such things about your wife? You know I love you, Henry. How devoted I am to you. Wolsey’s claims upset my humours – upset the babe in my womb.” She places a hand on Henry’s arm.

Her husband’s suspicions seem to be mildly calmed by her claims. Henry will not deny her love and faithfulness to him. No one would.

“It may have been improper for Lord Stafford to escort me to my rooms,” she allows, redirecting her gaze to the front of the room. She ignores Lord Stafford’s imploring gaze. “But there was no ill intent. I needed assistance to retire to my rooms, and my ladies were not nearby. Surely there is no crime in that?”

“Your grace,” Wolsey states, sweeping his robes behind him as he stalks in her direction. “I am not doubting your faithfulness to the King, only Lord Stafford’s.”

But the courtier’s faces seem to have lost their horror and discomfort. In many cases, they appear mostly understanding, if somewhat fearful. Mary and Charlie are staring at her with something akin to admiration, though they both look solemn.

“Your majesty,” Lord Stafford says, grabbing their attention. “I am your humble and obedient servant. We have been friends for decades, you and I. I have loved you like a brother and counselled you in the best way I know how. If I have ever failed you, it was not intentional, and I beg for your forgiveness.”

“Your words to the Queen were treasonous,” Henry states. “To imply that a lack of a son was a good thing.”

_No,_ she thinks, heart sinking to the depths of her stomach. Wolsey has latched onto his heart and mind and poisoned him. The Cardinal smirks in her direction as her husband speaks, and Catherine feels her teeth grind against each other.

Catherine has lost and lost and lost. She will not lose Stafford – he does not deserve to be killed.

_I need you,_ she had thought.

Catherine may not be able to reach Henry anymore, but there is one thing that can. The babe.

Catherine almost instantly clutches onto her stomach.

“The babe is cross at this state of affairs,” she says, voice strained. “He is mad at Wolsey’s disrespectful accusations towards his mother and a loyal servant of the crown.”

As she continues to clutch onto her stomach, she rises from her chair, and takes two steps towards the door before collapsing.

“Catherine!” Lina exclaims, hurrying over to her side.

A few of the courtier’s rush to her side. Charlie gently helps her rise to her feet, with Mary and Lina holding onto her arms to support her.

Henry has also risen from his chair, is staring at Wolsey with a thunderous expression.

“Your theatrics and false claims have distressed my son,” he says shortly. Henry glances at Stafford. “Let him go,” he commands. “There is no sufficient evidence to support such claims.”

He moves towards Catherine, though his gaze does not soften.

“Come, wife,” he says, grabbing a hold of her arm so tightly she almost bruises. “Let me take you to your rooms.”

Catherine barely manages to look at Stafford before Henry is dragging her away. She stumbles at his rapid pace, can feel the bruises begin to form.

“Henry,” she says, gasping a little as he swings open the door to her chambers. “You’re hurting me—”

“If you were not with child you would also be standing for treason!” Henry yells, slamming the door shut. “Perhaps I would have taken off your head. Your only saving grace is the child in your womb, Catherine.”

Tears leak from her eyes as she stares at him, this man she has loved with every fibre of her being.

“You have given me nothing,” Henry tells her, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Nothing.”

“I gave you a son,” Catherine returns, summoning some of her courage. “And he died – I have given you our daughter—”

Henry hits the wall beside her head, causing her to jump.

“Is that it?” he asks. “Are you so satisfied with your failure?”

Catherine watches him pace around the room.

“Mayhaps if our daughter did not exist,” Henry says finally. “Maybe if I got rid of her, you would be more motivated to give me a son.”

Catherine barely manages to contain her gasp. _What has become of you, my husband?_ Part of her wishes to ask. The other is too appalled by the darkness that has overcome him, erasing any memory of the boy she once knew, of the man she had loved – and still does-- so much.

“I am trying, Henry,” she tells him, evenly enough. “I am trying to deliver this child to you. Mary—” she pauses.

Catherine has been unable to articulate her feelings for her daughter. Sometimes she will look at her and think only of the silence on the other side of the door when she’d told Henry, when she’d asked if he’d hold her, while she was bloody and tired and aching. Sometimes she will think of her mother, and how she would cry in shame at how Catherine has failed both her and her daughter. But she will not have this; she will not have anyone threaten her daughter’s life.

And Catherine, despite her failings, despite her grief and bitterness and loss, will not lose her daughter too. She will not.

If only she could trust that Henry would not follow through with his threat. If only things were as they once were.

_But they are not,_ she concludes inwardly. _They never will be. I see it now – even if I did give him a son, there has been too much pain, too much anger, too many hurtful things said to ever recover from this. Her husband – her golden prince, is lost to her, to England, forever._

And she is not with child.

_I need you,_ she had thought. Catherine is now beginning to understand why.

“I must retire, your majesty,” she says instead. “The day’s activities have been stressful on the babe, and I must rest.”

Henry eyes her coldly.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Do.”

And he storms out of her chambers. It is not long thereafter that Lina and Mary come hurrying in.

“Your grace,” Lina gasps, looking frantic. “Are you alright?”

Her friend does not even bother to hide her concern, her fear for her. Her fear for what the King might do. Mary does not even chastise her for the implication about her brother.

“Yes,” she tells them, though she has stood in the same spot, trembling, ever since Henry left. “I am quite well.”

She looks at Lina, remembers the tears she had shed over Catherine’s actions with the Lutherans. Catherine recalls now her own stubbornness, her refusal to admit the similarities to her mother, to even think ill of her. She will have to make amends with her one day, for so much, but not now.

“Maggie told me to thank you,” Mary tells her. “For speaking on behalf of her cousin.”

Mary moves to her, gently grabs a hold of her hand.

“And I wanted to thank you,” Mary continues. “For knocking that wretched Wolsey off his pedestal.”

Catherine cannot help but laugh. It is a bitter, borderline hysterical sound, and soon enough Catherine is sobbing.

“Oh, your grace,” Mary says, letting Catherine bury her face in her shoulder. “Oh, do not cry. You did the right thing – you upheld justice.”

_I lied;_ Catherine wishes to scream. _I lied, and somehow, it worked. And my husband is lost to me and I have no babe and I do not know what to do – I don’t, I don’t—_

“Rest,” Lina tells her, directing her towards the bed. Catherine does not both to undress, merely lets Lina guide her onto the mattress. “You must rest, Catherine.”

It does not take long for Catherine to fall asleep.

Catherine’s dreams are haunting, painful things. She dreams of beheadings and chaos. She watches Henry cast her away, lock her in some castle as he proclaims another woman his wife before proceeding to murder the woman too. His lust grows as fast as his belly, and the court becomes a place of unhappiness, corruption and misery. She is helpless as he discards Mary, misuses her, neglects her. Leaves her bitter and unmarried and isolated. She dreams of Mary turning into a monster, a fanatic, of England being torn into disarray, all because she could not give birth to a son. A son.

_Maybe if I got rid of her, you would be more willing to give me a son._

Catherine wakes with a shout. Her chambers are darkened, the fire having died and her drapes are drawn, no doubt because of Lina.

 _Mary,_ she thinks, disturbed. Her mind flashes with images from her nightmares – Mary crying, ailing, lonely, -- Henry threatening to kill her—

Catherine forces herself out of bed. She takes a moment to check her appearance, ensure she does not look to crazed, before she sets off for Mary’s chambers.

_Please,_ she thinks, steps quickening. _Please do not let anything have happened to her--_

Catherine bumps into Lady Pole as she opens the door to Mary’s chambers.

“Your grace,” the elder woman greets. “Is all well?”

There is a touch of wariness in her eyes, though on whose behalf Catherine does not know. She wonders briefly if the same tiredness is plain on her face. Catherine has noticed the new lines of age, some premature due to stress and isolation. Maggie looks as though she has something else to say, but refrains. There are other ladies here, and they all know they report to Wolsey.

“Yes,” she responds, forcing down her panic. “I merely wished to see my daughter.”

Maggie looks a touch uneasy. “She is in bed, your grace, mayhaps—”

“I will not ask her to leave it,” Catherine interrupts, stepping further into the room. “I merely wish to see her, to speak to her.” _To make sure she is still alive._

“Very well, your grace,” Maggie says, who has been more of a mother to Mary than Catherine herself.

_She is only trying to protect her,_ Catherine thinks. Her heart sighs at the reminder that she has caused this distance with her disappointment and regret.

“Thank you, Maggie,” she tells her friend. “You may go for the evening. Be with your family, your daughter, especially, after the past few days.”

The woman curtsies and slowly leaves the room. Catherine stares at some of the toys strewn out across the floor. To the best of her recollection, Mary’s favourite was her horse, but how long ago was that? She did not know.

Catherine approaches her daughter’s bed slowly, carefully sits beside her. Her child sleeps peacefully, making small sounds here and there. Henry did the same thing. Mary had his nose and chin; her hair was dark, with reddish glints. But she had Catherine’s eyes. That they shared.

Catherine has never _not_ loved her daughter. Even in those terrible weeks after her birth, when the disappointment and scorn was like a second layer of skin, Catherine loved her. It may have been a distant thing, something she could not access, but it did exist, somewhere deep inside of her.

_A girl,_ she had told Meg. _Useless. He thinks that I have failed him._

Catherine has not always been this way. Her mother was Queen Isabella; a warrior, a conqueror, a fierce defender of their people, a ruler. She had loved Catherine, never told her she could not do something because of her sex, though she may have loved John more. Catherine had been given the finest tutors, had never lacked for attention or doubted her mother’s love, though Joanna did. Catherine had been strong when she came to England; confident, powerful; but now, she is no longer the girl who would never give her power away. She has grown desperate and paranoid and jealous and unfeeling, all for the sake of Henry’s love.

Suddenly, she chokes on her hatred; chokes on the fact that she has allowed herself to become so twisted and warped, so unlike the woman her mother raised her to be. She has grown jealous of friends, of dear Lina, suspicious of all women, numb to the world, all for Henry.

She hates him for what he has done to her – no, she hates herself, for letting her character degrade this way.

“Mama?” Mary whispers.

Catherine startles out of her thoughts as she stares at her daughter.

“Hello Mary,” she murmurs, caressing her cheek. Her daughter leans into the touch, though she still looks wary.

There is so much for Catherine to answer for, so much to amend. So much love she has withheld from her child, and for what? For Henry? Catherine can scarcely understand it herself. She was so cold, those months after Mary’s birth. So alone. The world had been stripped of warmth; it took effort to get out of bed, to breathe.

It still does.

“Mama you’re crying,” Mary says, catching the tear with her finger.

Catherine swipes abruptly at her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles. She twirls a piece of Mary’s dark hair around her finger. “I’m alright, I swear it.”

“Is it Papa?”

Catherine bites down on her lip.

“No, Mary, it is not,” she replies.

_“Mayhaps if our daughter did not exist,” Henry had said. “Maybe if I got rid of her, you would be more motivated to give me a son.”_

Catherine remembers his expression during the London riots as they searched for Mary when she was lost; there had been desperation and care there. There had. Catherine does not know how to make sense of it, this man her husband has become. Or maybe he had been this way all along, and she had looked past it, too enamoured with her ideals to see reality.

“I love you,” she tells Mary fiercely. “I would do anything for you. Anything.”

Mary blinks with confusion.

“Sleep, my dearest,” Catherine says, smoothing the lines on Mary’s forehead. “For all will be well, and I shall take care of you.” She pauses. “And England.”

For Catherine knows now what she must do. The realisation – the full weight of it -- comes to her quietly, and in her heart of hearts she thinks the idea had been lurking in her mind since she had looked at Stafford and thought _I need you._

v.

Catherine spends most of the night thinking.

She recalls her nightmares – Mary burning people, revelling in their screams, Henry dissolving their marriage, good English people being hung and beheaded because of the King’s misery. She imagines what will happen to her if she’s found out.

She will be hanged, beheaded or even burnt. Her legacy will be one of disgrace – Mary will be cast off and discarded, forever tormented and unloved. And England – mayhaps there would have been a ruler to save them, to guide them into a golden age. But there is not. Not now. Henry will not let Mary succeed him and—

Catherine recalls words she had once said to Meg: _Fix your destiny in the heavens and follow your own course._ Meg had thrown the words back at her when she was last in England, when Catherine had warned her not to seek her annulment. _What happened to the girl I once knew?_

Catherine has chosen her course – and it is not one the heavens would approve of.

The Boleyn girls are in her antechamber when she exits her privy chamber, and they help her dress in a light blue gown, her hair only pulled back at the top.

She needs to find Stafford, that is true, but it cannot be too obvious, or else Wolsey will ask questions. She stands by the windows and watches the gardens for sign of him – she doesn’t see him, but she does spot Maggie.

Catherine makes her way to the gardens, conscious of the ladies trailing in her path. She does not think that the Boleyn girls are in Wolsey’s service, but she is not sure. The others – only Maggie and Lina she is sure of.

She misses Rosa then, with a heaviness that breaks her heart. But thinking of her now will not do. It will not.

“Maggie,” she greets, walking over to her friend.

“Your grace,” Maggie returns, smiling briefly at her. “Are you well?”

“Quite,” she says, glancing over her shoulders. The ladies have given them some pretext of space, are hovering far enough behind them that they should not be able to hear.

“How is your family?” she asks Maggie.

The elder woman sighs.

“Better,” she replies. “Stressed still – the King has pardoned my cousin and released him from the Tower, thank God.” Maggie pauses. “Thank _you,_ your grace. For speaking so boldly on my cousin’s behalf.”

Catherine forces a smile.

“Of course,” Catherine says. “It was the least I could do.”

They turn the corner of the hedges, and Catherine takes her chance.

“Is Lord Stafford still at court?” she asks, careful to keep her expression even.

“Yes,” Maggie admits. “The King wished to speak with him, to breach the _rift t_ hat had grown between them.”

“Ah,” Catherine murmurs, heart sinking.

“But it should be finished by now,” Maggie says anxiously. “I dare say my cousin mentioned walking about the gardens once more before he returns to his estates. He should be roaming about somewhere.”

“I see.”

Catherine looks back, finds her ladies faithfully following them. She stops, ignores Maggie’s confusion, and waits for them to approach.

“Ladies,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I wish for the Princess Mary to join me on this fine day. Bring her to me.” She glances at Maggie, whose expression appears approving, as though joyful that Catherine would spend time with her daughter.

She ignores it.

“Come on,” she says, heart thundering in her ears. “Bring her.”

“Your grace,” they murmur, bowing before departing for inside. Maggie follows them, thank heavens.

_Stafford,_ Catherine thinks, instantly seeking him out. _Where is he?_

Her steps are quick and furious as she searches for him. _Please,_ she begs, pressing a hand on her chest to try and calm her heart. _Please let him be here._

Catherine turns yet another corner, so she is now facing the massive pond on the edge of the ground, nearby the gathering of roses.

“Your grace?”

Catherine almost collapses with relief.

“Stafford,” she greets demurely, moving to meet him. He appears tired, to her eyes. She does not blame him for his weariness – he had been so close to death, after all. Had slipped by only by luck.

She wonders, briefly, what he thinks of her now. He is the only one who knows of her deception, who knows that her performance at his trial was false since there is no babe in her womb. It is a possibility she has allowed for in her thoughts, him no longer caring for her, believing her to be a Jezebel or a demon.

“Your grace,” he greets again, bowing.

He is dressed in the same doublet he wore at his trial.

“I understand you just spoke with my husband,” she comments, walking nearby the water.

“Ah yes, indeed I did.”

“And was it a fruitful conversation?”

He smiles briefly.

“As fruitful as it could be, I suppose,” he comments quietly. “His majesty has voiced his displeasure, and I am ever his obedient servant, your grace. As I am yours.”

Catherine looks at the ground.

“Of course,” she assures him, linking her hands together. “I do not doubt it.”

They walk a little further, but Catherine is conscious all the while of the need for urgency. Her ladies will not be gone much longer.

_But how can I ask of him such a thing?_ She ponders. _I cannot demand it of him – I will not. That would be disgraceful and monstrous. He almost lost his family, his life—_

“Your grace,” he begins, voice low. “I have not yet thanked you, for speaking so passionately on my behalf. You did not have to.”

Catherine looks at him then.

“Yes, I did,” she corrects. “After—after everything you have done for me, Lord Stafford, it was the least I could do.” 

Sadness fills his face.

“Madam,” he murmurs. “You should be resting.”

Catherine shakes her head.

“No, my lord,” she says. “There is—there is so much to do. For my daughter, myself, my country.”

_So much to atone for and I shall, after I secure this one last thing._

Catherine can feel herself begin to shake as she struggles to form the words, to actually voice her intent out loud. To do so will make it real, and she scarcely knows if she can even survive that. If he will listen.

_I have set my course,_ Catherine thinks. _Now I must follow it._

“God has decreed that I not give Henry any surviving sons,” she murmurs.

Stafford looks startled.

“Your grace,” he protests. “You are still young, still capable of bearing heirs—”

“Maybe,” she allows. She glances around the gardens to see if anyone is nearby. Catherine keeps a small smile on her lips, tries to ease any tightness on her face in case anyone falls upon them. “But not the King’s.”

“My Queen, you do not know that.”

“Don’t I?” she asks. “My husband gave me one last chance to provide him with a male heir. One. I do not intend to waste it, for there will be no others.”

Stafford takes a step away from her.

“Your grace?” he asks, his voice oddly small.

Catherine takes a deep breath, tries to ease air into her lungs. It, like everything else, is a struggle. _I love you,_ she had told Mary. _I would do anything for you. Anything._

“My husband threatened the life of my daughter,” she states calmly, trying to quell the part of her that is still unable to comprehend that Henry, _her_ Henry, would do such a thing.

Stafford opens his mouth, then closes it. “Harry wouldn’t,” he states, shaking his head.

Catherine smiles at him sadly.

“Harry wouldn’t,” she agrees. “Henry – Wolsey’s Henry—” she stops. It seems unfair to blame her husband’s degradation all on one man; her husband is a grown man of his own, capable of his own decisions. It was simply easier to blame the rest of the vipers at court than to accept he had ceased to love her all on his own.

“Henry,” she amends. “Would. You know more than anyone that the King has changed - as well as I.”

“What are you asking of me, your grace?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Catherine says. “Nothing you would not do of your own volition, my lord Stafford. I will not demand it of you.”

The words hang between them. Catherine can hear sounds of laughter and chatter in the distance, along with the pounding of her heart. These words are dangerous, _treasonous._

“My good Sir,” she says, touching his arm. “I am no Henry II, who asked of his knights regarding Thomas Beckett: ‘who will rid me of this troublesome priest?’ This sin, this _thing_ that I am asking, will be on my conscience, and mine alone. It will be one of the many things I answer for when I arrive at God’s throne.”

“Your grace—”

“It is a selfish thing to ask,” she interrupts, closing her eyes. “A dangerous, hypocritical, sinful thing. But for my daughter’s sake – for England’s sake, I am willing to ask it.”

Catherine is unwilling to open her eyes.

“If you wish to tell my husband, you may,” she whispers. “For I speak of betraying him.”

It takes a few moments for Stafford to find his voice.

“Is there anyone else you plan to approach, your grace?”

Catherine’s eyes fly open.

_I am not a whore,_ she almost snaps, but refrains. That is hardly fair.

“No,” she answers finally. She tucks a strand of her red hair behind her ear. Stafford follows the movement with his eye. “Only you.”

Catherine hears footsteps approaching, slow and leisurely, and takes a step away from the dark-haired lord.

“I shall leave you, my lord Stafford, to think on this matter,” she tells him, eyeing him carefully. She is trusting him with her life, with her daughter’s. Henry will show her no mercy.

The thought pains her, but God has already forsaken her, so what is yet another sin?

She eyes him carefully before she returns to where her ladies left her. They appear with Mary moments later, who is smiling happily at the sight of her mother.

Catherine beckons her over.

“Are you alright, your grace?” Maggie asks after Mary has grabbed a hold of her hand. “You seem pale.”

“Do I?”

Catherine looks down at Mary, who is already staring at her with wide, innocent eyes.

_God forgive me,_ she thinks, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek. _God forgive me._

Catherine spends the entire day with Mary. She releases her of her classes for the day, and spends the warm hours playing with her in the gardens, eating with her on a picnic. She tries to fill as much love into the day as possible, to try and make up for all the neglect Mary has faced in her life so far, and in case—

Catherine tries not to think on her proposal. Her emotions are too conflicting, too powerful to comprehend. And if she is too fall, if Stafford is to tell Henry, she wants Mary to have at least one full day of good, of happiness. Of love.

She recalls the visions she had of her daughter in her nightmares, and her heart cringes. She could never imagine her Mary becoming so hateful, so lonely, so angry. She would not allow it.

They return indoors in the afternoon, once Mary begins to tire. Catherine holds onto her hand, treasures its warmth, the smoothness of her skin. She stops in her steps when she catches sight of Henry standing in the hallway with Wolsey, Thomas Boleyn, Charlie Brandon and Lord Stafford.

_Oh God,_ she thinks, her knees knocking together as she stifles a gasp.

Her eyes settle on Stafford, urge him to look at her.

The small party have yet to notice her.

“Your grace,” Wolsey calls out, quieting their talk.

Catherine wonders briefly as to why Wolsey and Stafford would be conversing so soon after one had the other almost executed. She has no doubt she will soon find out.

“Ah, Catherine,” Henry states, turning to look at her.

She is taken aback by the casualness of his gaze.

_He has already threatened to kill me,_ she thinks, refusing to move. _And now that he has good cause, he does not hesitate._

“Henry,” she returns, trying to mask her terror.

“We were looking for you,” Henry continues. “Stafford had the idea to throw a masque on the morrow, before he returns to his estates.” Henry turns to look at the man, his expression casual. As if he had not almost had him killed a day before.

“It will be rushed, of course, and you will be unable to fully enjoy the festivities lest you grow too excited, but it is a fine idea, is it not?”

Catherine forces herself to nod.

“Of course,” she agrees quietly, walking closer to them. Her throat feels as though it is full of sand.

She catches sight of Wolsey’s less than happy expression at this turn of events, before her gaze rests yet again on Stafford.

Stafford, who meets her gaze reluctantly.

Catherine’s grip on Mary’s hand tightens as she watches, as she waits. She nods intermittently as Henry continues his plans for this masque, but she keeps on watching Stafford.

Slowly, slowly, he answers her unvoiced question with a miniscule but unmistakeable nod.

Catherine’s heart almost bursts with relief.

“That sounds like a grand idea, Henry,” she tells her husband. She looks down at her daughter. “You are too young for such things, Mary, but perhaps at your next name day you can attend.”

“Don’t thank me,” Henry interrupts, ignoring their daughter completely. “Thank Stafford for the idea.”

Catherine turns to said Lord.

“Thank you, my lord,” she tells him. “Tomorrow will be the most eventful night, I am sure.”

He does not smile or lighten at her words. For that, Catherine cannot blame him.

“Yes,” he agrees, pleasantly enough. “I am sure it will.”

vi.

Catherine does not dare approach Stafford openly at court. Henry may have forgiven him, but she has not forgotten how Wolsey had noticed his appearance in her rooms. He has eyes everywhere, and Catherine must not forget that.

That evening at dinner, Catherine watches the Cardinal as he eats. She must best him, she has no choice. No doubt there would be a distraction with tomorrow’s festivities – Henry would drink and flirt and charm and Wolsey watch and take care.

But still, she must have witnesses in her favour. Must have some guarantee of security.

“Henry,” she says suddenly. “I was thinking now of having two of my ladies sleep in my antechamber now, in case I have need of them.”

He glances at her.

“Very well,” he states. “That is not such a bad idea. Any ladies you have in mind?”

He phrases it in such a way that makes it clear there are some he does _not_ want her claiming.

“I have not yet decided,” she tells him. “I will alternate them – Lina and Maggie tonight, perhaps. Another pair tomorrow – perhaps the Carey sisters.”

“Very well,” Henry says, shoving another piece of food into his mouth. 

She watches Wolsey, who had ceased cutting his meat throughout the interaction.

_Good,_ she thinks. Her plan is set. All she needs to do is co-ordinate with Stafford, and—

_Sin,_ a voice inside of her supplies. It sounds an awful lot like her mother, like Lady Margaret and Queen Elizabeth of York.

Catherine has to bite down on her lip not to laugh. Focusing on her ghosts or demons will not aid her on this expedition.

She returns to her chambers once the dinner ends with Lina at her side. Things are still quiet and tense between them; the wounds caused have yet to heal. And Catherine wants to fix it, but she cannot. A part of her fears that if she starts talking to Lina, she will not be able to stop, and Catherine –

Catherine will not drag her friend down with her. She asked Lina to lie for her once; she will not ask her to do so again. Her or Maggie, especially with something as dangerous as this. No; only Stafford could know, and only because it was impossible otherwise.

It will have to be carefully planned and hastily done and Catherine—

Catherine may be many things, may have turned into someone she does not recognize, but a survivor, a _player,_ she has always been.

“Would you like a bath, tonight, highness?” Lina asks.

“No,” Catherine replies, taking out the pins from her hair. “No, I shall write something. I will be but a moment.”

_Dear Stafford,_ she writes carefully.

_I do not know if I will have the chance to do so on the morrow because of my condition, but I wished to seek you safe travels on your return home. I hope your time in the country will prove fruitful, and the recent tension at court will dissipate._

_Princess Mary shall miss you as well. Earlier today, I told her of a story which my mother told me: of a fisherman looking from the shore for a candlelight his wife had lit in their bedchambers to help guide his way home. It was one of my favourites as a child and is Mary’s also. I do thank you for your attempts at comfort, no matter how poorly worded they were. I hope the babe in my womb shall enjoy such stories as well._

_With my best wishes,_

_Catherine_

She does not bother to seal the letter, lest someone see her sigil and grow suspicious. She simply folds it tightly.

“Lina,” she says, extending out her hand.

Her friend eyes the letter with a curious look.

“Please, take this to Lady Pole and ask her to give this to Lord Stafford,” she requests.

Catherine looks down at the table.

“I do not know if I shall see him extensively tomorrow,” she tells her. “And I do not wish to approach him because of Wolsey—” she stops, smiles tiredly. “You understand.”

“Of course, highness,” Lina replies, grabbing the note and curtsying before heading for the door.

“And Lina,” Catherine calls out, right before she can open it. “Be discrete.”

Lina nods, but does not ask any further questions.

Catherine manages to stumble her way into her bedchamber and kneels on the floor after grabbing a hold of one of her crucifixes.

“God,” she prays. “Forgive me for what I must do.”

_And please, please, let him understand._

vii.

Catherine is unable to rid herself of the panic that has crept under her skin. She is unnaturally jumpy – she feels as though her entire ribcage is shaking within her skin with every step she takes.

Danger hangs over her like a cloud and she knows not how to rid herself of it – she is not sure if she ever will, or if she even deserves it.

The day passes by both excruciatingly slowly and too fast, all too fast. Catherine feels as though she is falling down a cliff that is endlessly far from the sea.

She tries to hide her restlessness – speaks with Mary, watches her with her tutors, and feels so distant from the world. Catherine could scream – but if she starts, she is sure she will not be able to stop.

Due to the last-minute nature of the masque, members of the court are reusing old masks from previous years. Catherine remembers one from the third year of her marriage; how much Henry had desired her, how happy they had been, and her heart aches and trembles in her chest. He still has the power to break her heart, her husband. And she loves Henry, despite everything, even though he has turned into someone she does not recognize – even in spite of what she plans to do. What she _has_ to do.

“You look tired, Catalina,” Lina tells her, after she has finished fastening Catherine’s dress.

“I am,” she replies, honestly enough.

She looks closely at her friend.

“As do you, Lina,” she observes. “I am certain the antechambers were not pleasant for you; I am sorry for that. Luckily the Carey sisters will attend to me tonight.”

Lina makes a small sound of acknowledgement, but otherwise avoids her gaze.

_Are you lost to me too?_ Catherine thinks, lifting a hand to her neck. She rubs the side of it absent mindedly. Catherine would be distressed if she were not so overwhelmed, so uneasy. She feels as though she has aged a thousand years.

“I will see Princess Mary before I go to the court,” Catherine murmurs suddenly.

She hurries to her daughter’s chambers, as though Mary would somehow disappear before she could reach her. Luckily, her daughter’s attendants have left her to sleep, and so Catherine is alone as she slips into the room, her ladies waiting for her outside.

Mary is fast asleep in her bed, snoring softly.

Catherine smiles at the sight of it, bends down to press a kiss on her forehead.

“Sometimes,” she whispers, heart heavy. “Sometimes, we must do things that condemn us for the greater good.”

Mary remains oblivious to the world.

“I love you,” Catherine tells her, mouth twisting. “I love you, Mary.”

She closes her eyes tightly. She hopes she will see her daughter again, that she will live beyond this night, that she can secure her daughter a happy future, free from the pain she had imagined in her nightmares.

Catherine removes herself from Mary’s side, and leaves the room quietly, careful not to wake her.

“Come,” she says, smiling at her ladies. “The court awaits its Queen, does it not?”

Catherine has not felt unapologetically loved by the court in a long time. For years, she has felt its pity and judgement as she has suffered loss after loss, as Henry grew to neglect her. As he fell out of love with her.

The people of England may love her, but Catherine has not felt secure in her place for a long time.

_A son will change that,_ she tells herself, fixing a smile on her lips. _It has to._

The festivities are already in full splendour by the time they arrive, and Catherine is momentarily taken aback by the decadence of it. The wine and ale appear to be flowing freely as the servants move from table to table. The music is loud and joyful.

Catherine still wants to scream.

She can scarcely tell anyone apart because of the masks covering their faces, and she absentmindedly fixes her own silver one.

Henry is sitting at the head of the room, her chair empty beside him.

“Your majesty,” she says, sitting beside him.

“Catherine,” he returns, sparing her a quick glance. “You look beautiful. Take care not to overwork yourself tonight.”

“Of course,” she agrees quickly, looking back at the courtiers.

Her ladies have dispersed across the room. She can see Lina talking to Maggie in a corner, and the Boleyn girls appear to have already found dance partners. The Carey girls continue to hover nearby.

_Stafford,_ she thinks. _Where is he?_

Because of his patch it should have been easy to recognize him but she could not spot him, try as she might. _On God,_ she thinks, pinching her wrist discretely. The pain helps sharpen her blurry vision, but she still does not find him.

Henry drinks and drinks, and talks to those who approach him, but seems content to ignore her.

Catherine would normally be trying to seek his attention, desperate for any affection or love he showed in her direction. As though she were a neglected pet. Catherine feels sick to her stomach, and is about to flee to her chambers anyway when—

“Your majesty,” Stafford says, bowing as he approaches her and Henry. “Your grace.”

There is a girl, flushing and giggling behind him. Catherine does not recognize her dress – or any of the features she can discern underneath the masque. Something inside of her twists and pulls and tugs, but she ignores it.

“Lord Stafford,” she greets, holding her hands together in order to prevent them trembling. “I hope you are enjoying the festivities.”

“Yes, Stafford,” Henry chimes in. “It has been a pleasant evening so far has it not?”

“Indeed, your grace,” Lord Stafford agrees. His masque ends at his nose, so she can see when he flashes them a smile.

_He is a good player too,_ Catherine thinks. Stafford can smile and laugh and pretend that Henry had not tried to have him imprisoned mere days ago – but then again, is Catherine not pretending too? Is that not what Henry wants?

“And you, your grace?” Stafford asks politely.

Catherine eyes him carefully.

“I am rather tired, I must admit,” she replies. “The babe lowers my energy, it would seem. I will retire shortly to maintain my rest.”

“A wise decision,” Henry says.

Catherine looks at him and smiles tightly.

“Very well,” Stafford says. Catherine sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I shall leave you both.”

He stumbles a bit as he returns to the hovering woman with blonde hair, and Catherine does not know if he is pretending to be so inebriated. _Perhaps he needs to be,_ she thinks. _To do such a thing._

Catherine is tempted to drink herself, but that would arouse too much suspicion or Henry’s ire, and she does not need that. When Henry stands to go and join Wolsey, Catherine lets out a deep breath.

She wishes she had brought a crucifix with her, so she could have something to do with her hands. _A schemer, you are,_ Lady Margaret had told her, all those years ago. _A seductress._

_You would have crushed me too;_ Catherine had told her.

She wonders now if she deserves it – if it would have been better for everyone if Lady Margaret had gotten rid of her and sent her back to Spain.

Catherine may not be able to recognize Henry, but that does not mean she recognizes the person she has become either.

She watches the court dance and drink and laugh and feels so cold. So empty. Catherine follows Henry with her eyes, sees him approach Mary Boleyn and laugh with her. If she could bring herself to feel something, _anything,_ she would.

Catherine catches sight of Stafford, who is still talking to the blonde-haired woman whom she cannot place. They are standing close enough to each other to be verging on inappropriate, and Catherine—

_He is a smart man,_ she thinks, looking at the floor. She wonders if anyone pities her now, the aging, unloved Queen.

She bids Lina goodnight when her friend asks to be excused and is glad to find that Maggie has disappeared – with Moore no doubt. The Boleyn girls are preoccupied, and the Carey sisters seem content to stay nearby. _Soon,_ she thinks, her stomach clenching with nerves and regret. _Soon._

“Your grace.”

Though he is disguised by a silver mask, Catherine would recognize Wolsey’s voice anywhere.

“Wolsey,” she returns dispassionately, staring at the crowd.

“You do not wish to dance, your grace?”

“The babe tires me,” Catherine replies. “I find it better to rest.”

“He must have a strong character to have so affected your health. Now, and a few days ago.”

Catherine looks at him then, can make out the scrutiny in his gaze.

“Yes,” she replies curtly. “He does.”

“I hope, your grace, that we still see eye to eye on the Lutheran matter at least.”

Catherine lets out a small laugh.

“Cardinal, you made it quite clear that any understanding we had was forfeit.”

“Why, your grace, I do not think I did – the King seemed to appreciate your good work.”

“The King,” Catherine grits out. “Appears to be preoccupied.”

Henry has still not left Mary Boleyn’s side. Wolsey follows her gaze, hums in agreement.

“Yes,” he says, in a near gloating tone. “I suppose he is.”

Catherine can feel his gaze on her, and it feels like a reminder – _this is our last chance._

She winces and stands abruptly.

“I am tired,” she declares, unable to bear being in that room any longer. “I must rest.”

She turns on her heels and remembers – _Stafford._

Catherine looks for him as she walks to the door, hopes he has been paying attention, that he notices that she left. She ensures to make her way through the dancers, so more people take note of her departure.

The Carey girls follow behind her faithfully, and Catherine struggles to fit air into her lungs. The world around her feels as though it is slipping away precariously, and she knows not how to bring herself back to the ground.

_Pull yourself together,_ she thinks to herself, as the door to her antechambers closes behind her. _You must follow this course._

But must she? Catherine is incapable of telling whether she is doing this for herself or for Mary – or even England. She thinks of Henry, of the look in his eyes after Stafford’s trial, his words. The growing coldness of his heart. She remembers her nightmare of Mary growing bitter and hateful and unloved, of England being torn asunder for years.

_Yes,_ she resolves, trying to push away any other emotion. _I must._

The Carey girls are to sleep nearby the fire in her antechambers in case she has need of anything. Catherine watches them closely and feels an inkling of guilt.

“Help me undress,” she says, walking into her bedchamber.

They undress her carefully, undoing laces of her gown, taking off the pins in her hair. They set aside everything neatly, help her dress into her nightshift.

Catherine has prepared for this moment in the evening already. She waits for them to go to the antechamber, before she digs out the vial. Catherine had long since been taking milk of the poppy to help her sleep. She remembers the physicians words even now – _a drop or two more,_ he had told her, _and you will fall into such a deep sleep that nothing could disturb you for several hours._

Catherine has only tried it on once or twice and hated it both times. It made her feel scared and disoriented, unnaturally groggy. Her stomach clenches as she pores two cups of wine and drops some milk of the poppy inside each cup, though not too much for them to notice. The wine will help mask the taste.

She hides the vial once again and pores her own cup.

“Girls,” she calls out, after they finish preparing for their own bed.

The Carey girls come into her bedchamber, looking slightly confused.

“I am sorry,” she tells them. “For calling you both away from the festivities tonight.”

“Your grace, it is no trouble,” the elder one, Eleanor says.

Catherine smiles at them.

“You flatter me,” she replies. “Please, drink some of my wine – it is Malmsey, my favourite. I know it is of little consolation, but it will make me feel better if you drink it.”

They nod obediently and grab a hold of the cups, taking several gulps of the drink.

“It is delicious,” the younger one, Elizabeth tells her. “Thank you, your grace.”

“It is no matter,” Catherine says. “You may both go rest. I might read a while, so I will blow out the candles in my bedchamber myself.”

They both look on the verge of protesting, but Catherine cuts in – “Please. I simply need some solitude.”

“As you wish, your grace,” Lady Eleanor tells her.

They curtsy as they leave the cups on her table, and depart for her antechamber, closing the door behind them. Catherine creeps close, presses her ear against the wall. She hears some movement, some murmurs as they settle into their sleeping palettes, and then silence.

She holds her breath, waits a few moments more. _God forgive me,_ she thinks, closing her eyes.

Catherine opens the door slowly and pokes her head through the opening. The Carey girls are sleeping soundly by the dwindling fire. She casts her gaze towards the window and then at her table, where she had purposely left a candle. She must ensure that the milk of the poppy worked, before anything. Catherine tip toes into the room, her feet against the cold floor and grabs a hold of two thick ledgers.

She manages to walk towards Eleanor without making any noise, and before she can think better of it she drops the books nearby Eleanor’s head. She jumps at the noise, but the girls make no movement. Instead, they continue to sleep soundly.

Catherine picks the books up quickly and sets to work on lighting the candle after she returns the ledgers to their original spots. Catherine hisses as the flame grazes her fingers and has to balance herself carefully as she places the candle by the windowsill, so it is visible from the gardens below.

_Please Stafford,_ she thinks, stepping away. Her heart is hammering like a drum in her chest, and as Catherine stumbles her way into her bedchamber, softly closing the door behind her, she feels as though she is on a boat in the midst of a storm, swaying relentlessly against the waves.

She manages to place herself on her bed. _I must do this,_ she thinks again.

“I must,” she whispers. “I have no choice – it is the best choice.”

_If I am damned already—if God has not forgiven me for one sin, will another truly make any difference?_

Catherine is not sure if she believes that, if she truly believes it, but she has no choice. This is an act of necessity, not of love, not of passion. Henry will not give her another chance, and a son is what will give this country stability. She loves Mary – Mary is smart and capable and will be an inspiring Queen wherever she goes. Catherine will ensure it. She could rule England in her own stead – but what would that mean for the succession? Would England become Spanish or French or Austrian in her husband’s name? If Mary died with no heirs, who would take over then?

Catherine remembers the visions she had had of Henry in her dreams, and cringes once again. She suddenly has the urge to stand, and so she paces around her bedchamber, waiting and waiting. She blows out any remaining candles so the room is covered in darkness, so she cannot glimpse herself in the mirror and see the lengths she is willing to stoop to—

Catherine pauses.

She hears a light tapping at the door that leads to the stairwell. Henry usually used it when he wished to spend the night in her chambers, but not always. It was the more discreet passage to the rest of the castle.

She approaches the door, listens again for the sound. She hears the light tapping once again, and gently pulls the door open, hoping beyond hope that it is not Henry.

It’s not.

She pulls Stafford into her chamber and closes the door behind her.

“Did anyone see you?” she whispers, stepping away from him. She moves so that she is sitting on the bed.

“No,” he replies slowly. Catherine can scarcely make out his figure in the darkness. “I left with—”

“The blonde woman,” Catherine supplies.

“Yes.”

He does not elaborate on what exactly he did with her, and Catherine is not too troubled to know. She does not need to know.

What can she say to him, to set him at ease? What could he possibly say to her? There is nothing to say. They must simply be done with it – done with this betrayal, with this act.

_You are granting me a chance to save my life,_ Catherine wishes to say but doesn’t.

“Stafford,” she settles on instead. “You know the reasons why I ask this. I do not ask for you to excuse them or approve of them. All I require is this one quick service of you, and I shall never ask anything of you again.”

“Your grace,” he whispers. Catherine thinks he turns in her direction, but she is not sure. “I am your humble servant.”

_For you, my queen, I will beg._

Something very close to guilt swirls in her stomach, spreads in her veins.

_If you were a good, moral person,_ a voice inside of her whispers. _You would ask him to leave, and never return. To forget you asked him of this, say you had gone mad and bewitched him._

Catherine opens her mouth to say it, but the words do not fall out.

_I will never give my power away,_ Catherine had told Henry once. And it was true. She lied to Henry about Arthur so she could still be Queen – she may have loved him as truly as a woman had ever loved a man, but Catherine had wanted to be Queen regardless. Now, she must protect her daughter, her country, her life.

Catherine may or may not be the light, but she has always been selfish when she’s had to be.

But how to start this act? Catherine knows – or suspects – that he desires her, but how does she start this? She is long past her youthful days with Henry and Arthur, is no longer the young Spanish Princess.

Catherine has not been a lover in a long time. With Arthur, it had been quiet and slow, tender. He had pleasured her. With Henry, she had known passion and desire, lust and fervour. But it has been so long, too long since she felt truly valued, since she last felt pleasure.

And this is not a moment of wild passion; no, this decision is cool, calculated, dangerous. Catherine suddenly feels ill. There is too much at stake for her to feel at ease.

“We do not have long,” she states quite simply. “And this can happen only once, my lord Stafford.”

The man moves closer to her, so he is now standing in between her legs, looking down on her. Catherine watches as his hand hovers close to her face, as though there were some invisible string holding him back, as though if he touched her, there would be no point of return.

“Edward,” he says quietly. “That is my name, your grace. If—if we are to do this, I ask only that you call me by that while I am in this room.”

Edward. It feels intimate; it feels dangerous. Using his surname was a way to detach herself from the situation; from him.

Catherine opens her mouth to refuse, then closes it. She has asked so much of him; has asked him to risk his life, to partake in sin for her sake; for her daughter’s sake, for England’s. She will do it.

“Very well,” she murmurs, swallowing down the touch of unease. “Edward.”

He touches her cheek then. His palm is warm, and she leans into the touch, sighing softly. If she closes her eyes, she can feel him trembling. _I must do this,_ Catherine thinks to herself. She tilts her head down, presses a slow, soft kiss to his wrist.

She hears his breath hitch.

“Your grace,” he says lowly, stepping closer into her heat, close enough that she could wrap her legs around his shins, that the side of his leg brushes against her thigh. “You are beautiful.”

Catherine would scoff if she were not taken aback by his sincerity.

“Come,” she says instead, grabbing onto his tunic to pull him closer to her level. His face is overwhelmingly close to her now, the angle slightly natural. She traces the length of his brow with her finger, slowly moves it down to trace his nose, his chin, and then his lips.

He leans closer then, as if to kiss her and Catherine freezes.

“Just once,” she says, trying desperately to keep some boundaries in place.

Stafford – _Edward_ looks at her closely, expression guarded, before nodding. Instead of moving to her mouth, he instead directs his lips at her chin. He kisses her there, before moving to her forehead, her nose, her eyes, the side of her neck.

Catherine tilts her head back, her hands drifting to his shoulders. If this is what will make this easier for him, she will do it. It is not unpleasant of course, only slightly unnatural. The longer it lasts the more it feels like a betrayal, the more her walls begin to descend, and Catherine cannot have that.

His hands trail down her body as he moves from her neck to her shoulder and then back up again. She can still feel his warmth through her night shift. Something twists, tightens and warms in her belly.

“Edward,” she sighs, eyes fluttering closed.

Almost dizzyingly, Catherine finds herself on her back with Edward hovering over her. Her legs wrap themselves around his waist, her nightshift falling up her thighs, exposing the white, creamy skin. His hands are on her thighs almost immediately travelling upward and upward and—

“Catherine,” he says, voice muffled from where his head is buried in her neck.

Catherine moves experimentally against his hands. It feels good – too good. And she – they, need to remain objective and careful. She shakes her head to rid it of its haziness, and quickly slides a hand up his thigh to cup his already hardening manhood.

He gasps against her skin, all heat and wetness, and Catherine carries on with her strokes. She spots a flash of skin exposed by his doublet and is momentarily tempted to kiss it, to wet it with her tongue.

_No,_ she thinks, moving hastily to pull his pants down. _No._

He helps her pull down his pants and push aside his smallclothes.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, pulling back. Catherine can scarcely make out his features in the darkness; it feels almost as though she is in a very lucid dream, somehow apart of herself.

“Yes,” she whispers, lying back, hiking up her nightshift even more. “I am ready.”

Edward nods and quickly positions himself on top of her, hands propped on either side of her head. He bends down to press a kiss on her forehead, before pulling back to position himself at her entrance. He glances at her one more time questioningly, and she nods, biting down on her lips as he pushes inside of her.

It’s an odd, full feeling, this, and she is reminded of how it felt to first lie with Arthur, how strange and foreign. For a moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing. He begins to move slowly inside of her. Catherine is unsure of what to do. To lie back, still as a statue would be to imply that she is an unwilling participant, and that is not a burden she wishes to thrust upon him. But to embrace him, to clutch him closer to her, would imply something which she does not want to think.

She wonders briefly, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, if Henry felt any such hesitation when he first betrayed her with Bessie Blount. She buries her face in his neck to hide her cringing. It would not do to think of such things now.

It would not be fair.

His thrusts are sharp, fast and hurried. Catherine feels separate from her body as he makes love to her; she can distantly feel vague signs of pleasure from his actions, but she otherwise feels numb.

It is too late for her to pull back now; she has already betrayed Henry with her body, spoken of treason. If Stafford’s seed were not to quicken inside her, all of this would have been for nothing, and Catherine would have yet another sin on her conscious and would-be damned forever with nothing to show for it.

_But Henry betrays you,_ a voice inside her whispers. _And he is not expected to go to hell._

“Catherine,” Edward gasps, his thrusts growing desperate.

“It’s alright,” she whispers against his lips. Her hands move to cradle his face. “It’s alright.”

Catherine covers his lips with her own when he finishes in case, he makes any noise. It is hardly a kiss, more a pressure of lips. When he ceases to shake, she pulls back, pushes at his shoulders with her hands.

He runs a hand through his hair as he slides out of her.

“You did not—”

“No,” she says hastily, feeling in between her thighs. She feels sticky and wet with his seed. _Good,_ she thinks, eyeing the door to her antechamber. “It is your pleasure that mattered, Lord Stafford.”

He does not respond to that. Catherine props herself up against her pillows as he begins to correct himself.

“Stafford,” she says, then pauses. “Edward, would you please pass me my comb? I do not wish to stand, in case--”

“Of course,” he cuts in quickly. He fumbles around in the darkness, but quickly finds the comb. Their fingers brush when he hands it over.

He hovers at the side of her bed for a moment. Catherine’s throat feels strangely dry; what is there to say when you have betrayed a King intentionally?

“Edward,” she whispers, throat aching as tears suddenly pierce her eyes. “Thank you.”

He leans down to press a kiss to her forehead; oddly enough, that singular act felt more intimate than anything else they had just done.

“Thank you,” she repeats.

For a moment, she thinks he might respond, but he does not. Instead, he leaves, and it is almost as though he had never been there at all.

viii.

When Catherine wakes in the morning, she forgets what she has done.

She lies against her pillows, sinks into the warmth of her bedclothes and then she remembers.

_What if I did it,_ she thinks, _and I do not become with child after all?_

In all her planning and dreaming and scheming, she has allowed little room for this possibility, somehow. She places a hand on her stomach, wonders if his seed has taken root.

_No. No._

Catherine cannot think of that – even if, even if she does become with child, this will be a Tudor, not a—

She cannot think it. This will be the heir to the English throne, and she can allow no room in her mind for any other notion.

The door to her bedchamber pushes open, and Catherine stiffens in her bed – it could be Henry and his guards, coming to arrest her—

“Highness,” Lina says, carrying some bed linen. “It is late. Lady Eleanor and Elizabeth only woke up moments ago.”

Catherine has to bite down on a scream.

“Ah,” she murmurs instead. “I gave them some of my Malmsey wine after we returned last night.”

“I might have known,” Lina replies, sounding amused. “It is the strongest of wines.”

A heaviness settles on Catherine’s chest.

“Yes,” she says. “I suppose it is.”

She wonders what Lina would say if she knew the truth. This will always be something between them, something that Catherine will have to carry to her grave, even if they were to reconcile.

“Lina,” she says suddenly. “I want you to tell the servants to start packing some of my belongings – ledgers, books, dresses.”

“Why, highness?” Lina questions, looking taken aback.

“I think it will be wise if I went to the country for the first few moons of this pregnancy,” Catherine says, holding onto her stomach.

“Does his majesty know?”

“No. I shall inform him today.”

“But it will take time to plan such a trip, Catherine, and to organize it—”

“I shall handle that,” Catherine says, getting out of bed. “Just help me dress, and then inform my other ladies.”

\--

Catherine’s public pregnancy has lasted almost a month, by now. If, if her attempt was successful, she will start to show late and the physicians may notice or grow suspicious – or Henry will too.

If she is in the country – or anywhere else from the court, by the time she returns for the birth, she will be far along enough that few will be able to tell the difference. She can isolate herself from the world and return when the time is right.

But there are also other reasons. Seeing Henry like this, with other women, with Wolsey, still pains her deeply, even if she no longer has the right to feel that way anymore. If she does not see it, does not hear it, it cannot distress her so.

Catherine leaves Lina to inform both her ladies and Mary’s of their upcoming decision – Henry will not refuse her. At least, she hopes he will not.

She finds him, coincidentally enough, speaking with the court physician. Catherine finds the Physician to be a relative nuisance who hovers too much, but in this instance, she is glad to see him. When he had informed her of her pregnancy, he had recommended going to the country; Catherine had refused, because she wanted to be nearby Henry. To try and keep him close, for whatever good that did her.

“Catherine,” Henry greets, taking a sip from his cup. “You’re up late.”

“I was tired, your majesty,” she tells him.

She stands before him, waits for him to finish his drink.

“My husband,” she says. “I think it shall be beneficial for our child if I went to the country.”

Henry eyes her critically.

“The country?”

“Yes,” Catherine replies. “Remove myself from the stress of court life, at least for a short while.”

The court physician looks at her as though she has finally seen the light.

“You will return to Westminster for the birth?” Henry asks – or demands. She can no longer tell.

“Of course,” she acquiesces. “I shall travel to Eltham Palace.”

“Eltham?” Henry breathes. “That’s hardly in the country.”

“No,” Catherine agrees. “But it is away from court. And it is usually well prepared for visits, so I need not stress myself with organizing a long trip or resources.”

Henry, for a moment, pauses.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Best to remove stress for the baby.”

_Or emotional duress._

“Indeed,” Catherine says instead. “I shall take Mary with me, of course.”

Henry makes a sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat.

“If you think it best to take her with you, then do so,” he says, shrugging. “It makes no difference.”

“I may also go on a pilgrimage,” she adds.

“A pilgrimage?”

“Yes. To make offerings for the safe delivery of a Prince.”

“Hmm. Very well, as long as the physician approves.”

Catherine smooths the front of her skirts, curtsies slightly.

“Thank you, Henry,” she says, turning on her heel.

“Catherine,’ he calls out, when is almost out the door. “This is our last chance. Do not waste it.”

Catherine’s hands clench at her sides.

“I will not, your grace,” she replies, forcing the words out of her lips. _I have not._

ix.

Mary asks her few questions when they meet in the front courtyard. She is a quiet child, her daughter. In this moment, Catherine has never been so glad for it. The sun beats down on them, and it makes Catherine dizzy. She manages to force out instructions regarding which trunks should go where, but feels unusually sweaty and disoriented.

Mary’s tutors scramble around, trying to pack their own belongings so as to accompany them. Catherine’s ladies will join her at a later date – she will suffice with the servants at Eltham. She needs solitude and Catherine does plan on going on a pilgrimage. She needs to cleanse her soul, find peace. And she cannot do that if Lina is there.

Henry’s sister Mary says goodbye to them, as does Maggie, who will also be joining them later. Catherine can isolate herself from Mary’s tutors – to do so with a friend would arose suspicion.

Henry does not come to say goodbye to them.

Catherine expected it, but it still hurts her, nonetheless.

She helps Mary into the carriage and is about to climb in herself when—

“Your grace,” Lord Stafford calls out, the doors to the main hall closing behind him. 

Catherine freezes at the sound of his voice and turns to him.

_You fool,_ she almost yells. But part of her is weary with shock and fatigue, and it dulls her anger.

“My lord,” she returns. “I thought you had left for your estates.”

He halts to a stop a few feet in front of her.

“Not yet,” he says. Something flickers in his eye as he looks at her.

_You’re beautiful, Catherine,_ he had told her.

Catherine recoils away from him.

“I heard you were leaving court, and I—I wished to say farewell.”

His hands curl at his sides, as if he’s trying to hold onto something. Catherine hates him for his sincerity, his devotion – she is grateful for it, of course she is, but it is clawing at her throat, suffocating her, reminds her of everything she has lost.

And yet – he has risked his life for her, done the unimaginable, and so Catherine cannot resent him entirely, no matter how much she might wish to in this moment.

“And so you have,” she says, eyeing him meaningfully. “And now I must go. I suggest you do the same, good sir.”

She climbs into the carriage before he can reply, hastily closing the door behind her.

“Ride!” she demands, hitting the wall of the carriage.

The carriage pulls ahead almost immediately.

_Breathe,_ Catherine reminds herself.

She looks at Mary, who is holding onto one of her dolls.

“Mama are you alright?” her daughter asks, voice small.

Catherine grabs a hold of Mary’s hand.

“Yes,” she tells her, unsure if she even believes it. “I am.”

They spend the rest of the ride in silence.

\--

Eltham Palace is only a few hours ride from Westminster and Catherine is glad for it. She needs to be alone – to breathe and cry in peace.

The palace is large and beautiful, full of gardens and colour, and Catherine is glad for that, because at least Mary will enjoy it. Catherine allows her to run off her with tutors and lets the steward of the palace fuss over her for a few moments.

She manages to conjure up an apology for the short notice of their arrival, but the steward, whose name happens to be Edmund, tells her it is a delight to house the Queen and Princess and the future heir.

Catherine smiles at that and inquires about their chapel.

Edmund leads her to it, smiling, and Catherine cannot help but return it, even if her insides feel as though they are on fire.

The instant he leaves her, Catherine falls in front of the crucifix they have, a gold, mighty thing, and prays.

“Please God,” she whispers. _Did I do the right thing? Please, guide me. Help me._

Visions of her and Henry, Henry and Bessie, her and Stafford flash in her mind, and Catherine cannot bear it, she cannot bear this uncertainty, this helplessness—

“Give me a sign,” she cries, her voice breaking. “Please, God, give me a sign. Show me that I can do good for England.”

Nothing comes. There is no vision, no help, no light – there is nothing.

Catherine knows not how long she stays there, praying.

She is only interrupted when the door opens.

“Who is there?” she demands, turning. “Who—”

Mary stands in the doorway, staring at her.

And Catherine – Catherine has caused her daughter so much pain already. She cannot bear to give her more.

_I wanted this for you,_ she thinks. _For both of us – for England._

“Come,” she says, beckoning her over. “I was praying for your sibling.”

Mary obeys her quickly. Even though she is kneeling, Catherine is the same height as her. She cups her daughter’s cheeks in her hands.

“I love you, Mary,” she tells her. “I will take care of you – take care of us.”

Mary watches her, and nods.

“I believe you, Mama,” she says.

Catherine kisses her forehead, and holds her close, for her daughter is the only thing solid, the only thing real to her in the world.

_Please God,_ she thinks again. _For Mary, please. Let me do this for her._

x.

A fortnight after they arrive at Eltham, Catherine becomes sick after eating poached eggs.

It makes tears leak from her eyes as her body shakes due to her nausea, but she _knows._ Oh, how knows.

“God’s ways truly are mysterious,” she whispers, and then cries and cries and cries.

_End of Part One._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope everyone who celebrates had a very merry Christmas. Sorry this took so long to get done! LOL and don't kill me, but I upped the chapter count because pacing wise it made no sense and if I kept going it would have been like 60,000 words long. Thank you guys so much for all of your support with this story! I really love and appreciate it. I hope you guys enjoy this. Also, just a warning, I've forgotten a lot of details from the show, so if you guys notice any discrepancies please try and ignore them. Thanks! I've really tried to redeem Catherine a bit and try and get into her headspace for a lot of her questionable decisions (like Flodden, because wtf was that). Anyway, the next part should be up soon. Trigger warning for mentions of miscarriages, depictions of emotional neglect/abuse and brief scenes of physical abuse, and religious discrimination. There is some pro-Christian ideology going on here because of the religious intolerance of the times, which is ridiculous because no religion is better or superior to the other, but heads up anyway. 
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think. I hope you guys like this. 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073

i.

Catherine lays down stomach first on the cold floor, arms outstretched. Though she asked for privacy, she can feel the gaze of the Priests in the alter way. 

Canterbury is a beautiful Cathedral, but Catherine is here for a singular purpose. 

Please God, she thinks, turning her cheek on the cold stone. 

I am not Henry II, Catherine had told Stafford. It was strange to think she was now praying in the place where Archbishop Beckett had been murdered. She, who had committed such an act of desperation. 

But surely it was not wholly evil? She thinks, exhaling loudly. For it worked. 

But Catherine knows very well how precarious pregnancies could be. She had lost too many to be completely secure in her condition. Besides, it could simply be a punishment – let her think herself to be pregnant, and then it is actually a tumour or some other illness. 

Catherine closes her eyes, tries to calm her breathing. Her knees are starting to hurt from where they dig into the stone. She ignores it. She murmurs a prayer in Latin. I am ever England’s servant, she thinks. And yours. What can I do to serve you? 

Was it persecuting the Protestants? Serving Henry blindly? 

Catherine had lost her child the night they had burned those Lutheran books. Serving Henry faithfully and truthfully had resulted in her losing him to his affairs, lust and paranoia. In more miscarriages than she wanted to remember. All the foundations on which her life is built on, on which she has been living on these past several years, have been yanked out from under her feet. 

She has betrayed Henry with her body in order to survive. In order to protect Mary and her country. And she has succeeded in buying more time. She needs to rebuild her purpose – her life. She does not want to become like Wolsey, who is corrupt and scheming. 

The court is a place of games, Lina had told her once. Of games and scheming. They are all players – and you, highness, play them very well. 

Catherine does know how to play the game. She has to. But Catherine does not like the woman she has become. Jealous and paranoid and cold. For that is what she has been reduced to. Ever since she walked in upon Henry and Bessie, she has felt herself grow distant from the world, and angry. Catherine cannot a remember a day in years where she has not felt her heart break.

I must be strong, she thinks. I must. 

But Catherine has been repeating that mantra for longer than she cares to remember, and it has not filled the void in her soul. She has neglected Mary because of it – has let the poison of the court and her own selfishness fill her heart to the brim. No, she must not only be strong. 

Please God, she begs yet again. Show me the way. 

The way back to the woman she once was when she was sure of Henry’s love and of her place? 

Catherine tries now to recall how it felt. To not be scared or stressed or alone. To feel loved, desired. Catherine closes her eyes. She has felt the latter all too recently and—Catherine cannot let herself think on it. No, the more she suppresses the truth, the better. She can almost ignore it then. Almost. 

Catherine ponders further on the woman she was in the early years of her reign. Camelot, she used to say. This is our Camelot. 

They were the reincarnations of Arthur and Guinevere, of justice and peace and culture. Catherine remembers her own Arthur; his crooked, shy smile, his quiet eagerness, and thinks – rather unfairly perhaps – that she would have ultimately been a great deal happier if he had never died. Catherine cringes against the stone, ashamed. She has known happiness and love – and she has her daughter, and the babe in her womb. She has much to be grateful for. 

And yet, Catherine has lost herself along the way, lost that earnest, ambitious, outspoken young girl she once was, and she knows not how to get her back. In truth, Catherine is not sure if she even wants to. But she does desire to find some sureness of self again, to be driven by something other than just survival or desperation for Henry’s love. 

Catherine slowly begins to rise into a kneeling position. There’s an ache in her cheek. Catherine gazes up at the cross and bows her head. Let me try and rebuild our court, she thinks. Let me try and be the light once again. Or at least bring light to England. 

As always, she has no answer. 

“Thank you, dear Lord, for this blessing,” she whispers. “Let me give birth to a healthy son. Let me make him a worthy heir.” 

Worthy he may be, a part of her whispers. But a Tudor he is not. 

ii. 

Catherine did not bring Mary with her on her pilgrimage. Canterbury Cathedral is not far from Eltham, however, and so it does not take long for her to return after having been away for a few days. She had walked part of the way to show her penance and faith and is relieved to be inside her carriage once more. 

She falls asleep as the carriage rolls back towards the palace. 

They have been at Eltham for nigh on a month. Lina is expected to join them shortly, along with Maggie Pole. A part of Catherine longs for their company – the other is terrified. How can she look Maggie in the eye after what she asked of her cousin and not feel guilty? 

Catherine did not tell them for a reason. She asked them to lie for her once and she will not do so again. Besides, to let others know of her secret would be a weakness which she cannot afford. 

But Lina – Catherine could try there. 

When the carriage rolls into the front courtyard of Eltham as the sun begins to set, Catherine is relieved. She has missed her daughter. When the door opens and she is helped out, she smiles and laughs at the sight of Mary waiting eagerly at the door. 

“Mary,” Catherine calls out, stalking towards her daughter. She hugs her closely, delights in the way in which she does not stiffen or hesitate to return the embrace. At least out of everything, the past few weeks have given her this. 

“How are you, sweet girl?” she asks, pulling back. She cups Mary’s cheek. 

“I’m well, Mama,” Mary chirps back, smiling. “I missed you.” Her smile dies at that, as though she were about to be reprimanded for her vulnerability. 

Catherine’s heart sinks a little. 

“I missed you too,” she responds, rising. She greets the steward with a brief smile, but otherwise keeps her attention on Mary, lets her daughter guide her inside. 

Mary and Catherine dined together shortly thereafter, which Catherine was glad for. While Catherine had eaten enough to satisfy the babe in her womb, she had still tried to exact some modesty, leaving her mostly famished by the time she arrived. 

“How have your studies been going, Mary?” Catherine asks, after the sweets had been brought to the table. 

Something flickers across her daughter’s face that Catherine can’t quite catch. 

“They have been going well, Mama,” she replies. 

“The book I had commissioned for you by Juan Luis Vives has suited you well?” 

“Yes,” Mary replies shortly, growing quiet. 

Catherine watches her daughter closely but is unable to break through to her. It pains her, that she knows her daughter’s habits so little that she is unable to coax her out of her shell. 

When their dinner finishes, Mary is taken by one of the ladies to prepare her for bed. Catherine seeks out Lady Margaret Bryan, the woman only in slightly lower position than Maggie in Mary’s household. 

“Lady Bryan,” Catherine states, once she manages to find the woman in the library. Evidence of the day’s lessons are still scattered about the room. Catherine leans over Mary’s table, sees some French writing, and what appears to be Greek. 

“Your grace,” the elder woman greets, curtsying appropriately. “I hope your travel was very much to your satisfaction.” 

“It was, thank you,” Catherine returns. She tries to hide her unease. “Lady Bryan, I noticed that my daughter appeared to be somewhat stressed. Has something occurred with her lessons?” 

Lady Bryan takes a moment to consider her words. 

“Princess Mary has encountered some difficulty with Greek,” she tells Catherine. “And she became rather upset over it, this morn.”   
“I see,” Catherine murmurs. “Is the new teaching guide I commissioned for her too difficult?” 

“Oh, I think not, your grace,” Lady Bryan smiles. “She is a remarkably gifted child. Hardly ever cries, except for today.” 

“Very well,” Catherine says, troubled. “Thank you for informing me, Lady Bryan.” 

Catherine leaves the library to find Mary. She pushes open the door to her daughter’s chambers quietly, finds Mary playing with one of her dolls. 

“Mary,” Catherine calls out, walking into the room. Her daughter pauses with her play, rushes to her side with her doll in hand. 

“Is that your favourite?” Catherine questions, smiling gently. 

“Yes, Mama,” Mary answers, blinking at her sleepily. 

Catherine eyes her closely for signs of distress. When she can find none, she sighs softly. 

“Mary,” she begins. “I spoke to the Lady Bryan.” 

Almost at once, her daughter’s expression darkens. 

“I know of the difficulty you experienced today.” 

Mary refuses to look in her direction in favour of staring at the ground. 

“Mary,” Catherine says slowly. “Why did you not want to tell me?” 

Her daughter’s lower lip trembles as she stares resolutely at the floor. 

“I—I thought you might not be happy with me,” Mary whispers. “That you wouldn’t love me and would leave me alone.” 

Catherine has to bite down on a sob. I have failed you; she thinks. Catherine may justify dozens of her actions, but she will never forgive herself for her neglect of Mary during her early years. 

Never. 

“Love is not conditional, Mary,” Catherine tells her instantly. “I will love you even if you do not master Greek or French or arithmetic. I will love you through anything.” 

A tear slips down Mary’s cheek. Catherine catches it with her thumb, wipes it away gently. 

“I’m sorry I was not better at saying it before,” Catherine chokes out. “But I do love you.” 

Catherine recalls her own mother now. Queen Isabella. The warrior. The greatest monarch this world had ever known. 

She then thinks of Joanna, of her father. Of the heavy weight that had been put on her shoulders since she was a young girl – the constant need to prove herself. 

Catherine flinches and drops her hand. 

“Come, Mary,” Catherine settles on finally. “I will tuck you into bed.” 

She offers out her hand and something settles in her chest when Mary takes it after only a moment’s hesitation. 

When Mary is settled into bed, Catherine walks down the halls, her hand placed over her stomach. Catherine had loved her mother with all her heart. Had lived and breathed of her. She loved John more than us, Joanna had told her. She had slapped her then for the insult, but Catherine had known it to be true. 

John was the Prince, the heir. He could do no wrong. Catherine had loved her brother, but because of him, she always felt as though she had something to prove. She had to be as brave as a man, as strong, as fearless. If she was not, she was nothing. 

Catherine thinks of Flodden then, of the battlefield and the heavy rush in her heart and flinches. 

Our parents damage us more than we know, Catherine thinks. She frowns, thinks of the babe in her womb. 

She will have to do better with this child and with Mary. 

Provided you manage to deliver it safely. 

Catherine flinches, guilty and afraid, and flees. 

iii.

Catherine spends most of the day alone. She breaks her fast with Mary, organizes luncheons for them both and dinners too. One day a week she has Mary take a break from her studies, and if the weather is good, they run about in the gardens. 

Catherine organizes new flowers to be planted, roses and tulips of various colours. She supervises the progress closely, lets her hands cup the delicate petals, the sweet aroma tickling her nose. 

Otherwise, she lets herself rest. She reads and sleeps and talks with the Steward of fixing some loose stones on the roof and some other menial tasks, but otherwise isolates herself from the world. She receives no letters from Henry or the court, and tries to pretend it does not hurt her, that Henry has forgotten her so. 

She tries not to think of him, of what he said, of what they have become, but she cannot always help it. Sometimes she will lay awake at night and think of him and Bessie, or him and Mary Boleyn and her soul will flounder even more. 

Sometimes her night terrors plague her – images of Mary alone and unloved or imprisoned. Visions of Catherine and two other women on the chopping block, trembling and cold and alone, having played the game and lost. 

Sometimes she has no nightmares or visions, and she simply lays in her bed, afraid. Fearful that if she closes her eyes, if she lets her guard down, she will awake to a cramp in her belly and blood in between her thighs. 

She tries to hide her terror from Mary and the others. Spends a great deal of time in the chapel, praying to God, trying to seek his favour. 

Catherine still has no answers, no guarantees of what God desires from her. 

Close to two moons after they came to Eltham, Lina arrives with her children. 

Catherine and Mary await them in the courtyard, and the smile that graces Catherine’s lips at the sight of her friend is genuine. 

“Lina,” she greets, beckoning her friend up from her curtsy. “Welcome to Eltham Palace.” 

Catherine’s gaze flickers to Lina’s sons, Thomas and Barnaby, and the newborn, Oviedo. They’re handsome little boys, only a year or two older than Mary. Catherine used to feel jealously swell in her stomach at the sight of them. It’s still there somewhat, along with fear, but it’s been muted somehow. 

The time in the country has done some good at least. 

Catherine lets them settle into the castle. The boys appeared to drift off soon after they had arrived, so she awaits Lina in the gardens. She watches Mary run along the rows of flowers, cautions her of thorns when Mary begins to touch the roses. 

Catherine turns to find Lina staring at her, slightly taken aback. 

“My dear friend,” Catherine says, heart beating fast. “It is good to see you.” 

“And you, my queen,” Lina returns. 

They begin to walk through the garden, the sound of Mary’s giggles drifting behind them. 

“The Princess seems quite happy.” 

“Oh yes. Eltham has been much to our liking.” Catherine pauses, touches her stomach. “And the babe’s.” 

“Have you been feeling well rested, highness? You seemed quite tired before you left court.” 

Catherine thinks of her sleepless nights, of the days she has been ill due to the child. It has not been easy, no. But it is better than it would have been at court. 

“I am feeling much better,” Catherine replies, flashing her friend a smile. “The countryside has done me good. Brought me some clarity.” 

“It was said that you went on a pilgrimage.” 

“A brief one – I’d hardly call it that. But it was good to seek God’s blessing.” 

At this, Lina’s expression falters.

“How has London been?” Catherine presses on. “I receive very little news from court.” 

“Wolsey has continued his war against the Lutherans,” Lina tells her. 

Catherine feels her heart drop to her stomach. 

“I see,” she says, trying to hide her panic. “And has—” 

She stops, unsure of how to express herself. 

“Have his tactics escalated?” Catherine asks finally, stopping in her tracks. 

“No, highness,” Lina responds slowly. “They have not.” 

“That’s good,” Catherine breathes. She turns, looks to find Mary sniffing deeply into a pink rose. 

“She is very beautiful, highness,” Lina tells her. 

“She is.” 

“It is a great joy to see you both so close now.” 

Mayhaps if I got rid of her you would be more motivated to give me a son. 

Catherine’s lips part. 

“She is a great comfort to me,” Catherine allows. “I would not leave her alone at court.” 

“And the babe?” 

“He is strong,” Catherine supplies. She thinks then of Stafford, of him coming to see her off, and is tempted to ask of him. 

“Where is Oviedo?” she settles on instead, continuing to watch Mary.   
“Lord Stafford required him to stay in London for a few days. He will be allowed to join us shortly.” 

“London?” Catherine asks sharply, turning to stare at Lina. “Lord Stafford is at Westminster?” 

“No, highness,” Lina tells her, eyeing her curiously. “Lady Pole has been writing to him since his return to his estates. Oviedo was there to guard Lady Ursula and her husband, who remain under her mother’s care.” 

“I see,” Catherine murmurs, some of the tension in her chest fading. Her hands hover above her stomach. “That is good to hear. Wolsey is no doubt still looking for blood.” 

Lina opens her mouth, but snaps it shut just as fast. Catherine can tell what she wished to say anyway. He does not do so without the King’s permission. 

Catherine pictures Henry then, cold and angry and so far from the man she loves, and cringes. 

Thinking of him makes her feel hollow and guilty all at once.

“We must set aside such matters,” Catherine says, forcing a smile to her lips. “The country air is meant to be an escape from court, not to drag such matters everywhere we go. Do you miss Spain, Lina?” 

The change in topic is abrupt and Catherine hopes Lina will accept her steering away from the conversation. 

“I like England, highness,” Lina replies. “But I miss the warmth of Spain, the sun, the blue sky.” 

Catherine makes a sound of acknowledgement.

“As do I. It was certainly easier to grow flowers there than it is here. It rains a great deal, but I love my country. I do wish that Mary could see Spain, to know it as I once did.” 

“Now that she is marry King Charles, will she not have the chance?” 

“I suppose she will,” Catherine murmurs, thinking of her nephew, sixteen years older than Mary. She wishes for the marriage, of course she does. She fought Wolsey for it, pleaded with Henry and won. But Catherine is aware of how long Charles will have to wait in order to have an heir. But her nephew knew of the risks when he agreed to the proposal. He must have weighed the benefits in his mind. “I must prepare her for Spain – I do not wish for her to be as taken aback as I was when I first came to England.” 

Catherine’s mother had made her learn English and history, but Catherine had still been taken aback by the country she was negotiated to live on for the rest of her days.   
“Prince Arthur made you walk in the rain, did he not?” Lina muses, smiling a little. 

Catherine laughs at the memory of her husband, awkward and well-meaning as he was. I will try hard to be a good husband to you, he had told her. Catherine thinks of Henry then, and her smile dies. 

“Yes,” she replies simply. “He did.” 

Something tightens around her heart like a chain, squeezes it tightly. Catherine thinks of Spain. Of the dry heat, the vibrant colours. The people. 

I want you to know what I am, she had told Arthur all those years ago. She had told him of Islam, of the various people that her parents’ kingdom held until they were expelled or converted. She had not even told Henry of that. No, with Henry her actions and words had been more calculated, measured—lies. Catherine had known what she wanted, had wanted to survive more than anything, to hold onto power and fulfill her destiny – love, as powerful and true as it ever could be, had followed afterwards. 

Catherine had fancied herself in love with Henry from the first moment she saw him. She will not deny her attraction, of course, but now—years later, heartbreaks later, she can be honest with herself. She had loved Arthur too, in her own way, in those short months they were wed. Had loved their ability to start anew, to talk and laugh and hope and dream of the future. Henry was passion and danger and lit her body alight. With Arthur, it had been a quiet affair, but gentle, respectful.

Catherine has not felt loved by Henry in a long time. 

Catherine’s mind flashes, unbidden, to the last time she had been bedded. You are beautiful, he had told her. She remembers the long kiss he had pressed to her forehead before he had fled her chambers, long and heavy, secretive and delicate, as though she were something precious, something that needed to be handled with care—

“Your grace,” Edmund calls out. 

Catherine turns to look at the Steward, is surprised to find Maggie trailing behind him. Mary has already joined her former governess, talks to her rapidly. Catherine tries her best to ignore the pang of jealousy in her stomach at the sight. 

“Edmund,” she returns. “Thank you for escorting Lady Pole to join me and Lina.” 

He bows, leaves them some privacy. Maggie curtsies deeply at the sight of Catherine, before flashing her a smile. 

“Forgive me for the delay, your grace,” Maggie tells her. “I was saying farewell to my daughter and her husband who are returning to Lord Stafford’s estates with their children.” 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Catherine says. “Welcome to Eltham Palace, Maggie.” 

Her gaze drifts to Mary, who has traces of pollen on her cheeks. 

“Mary,” she chides softly. “You need a bath.” 

Mary pats her cheeks; flushes as yellow stains appear on her hands. 

Catherine waves over one of the nearby servants to escort her daughter back inside. 

“We will see you at dinner,” Catherine tells her. She leans forward, presses a kiss to Mary’s forehead and feels a wave of satisfaction when Mary’s pout ebbs. “Make sure the Princess is bathed appropriately,” Catherine tells the servant. 

The girl nods, bows and guides Mary back indoors. 

Catherine catches Lina and Maggie staring at her with reserved approval. Catherine ignores it. She does not need them inquiring into why she has reconciled with her daughter so. 

I will try hard to be a good husband to you—

Maybe if I got rid of her you would be more motivated to give me a son—

“How has the court been?” Catherine forces the words out of her mouth. “How are you, Maggie?” 

The three of them begin to walk once more, conversing quietly amongst themselves. 

“How have you been, your grace?” Maggie inquires. 

“I have been well,” Catherine replies. “The babe is strong and healthy.” 

“I am glad to hear that your escape from court has been pleasant, your grace.” As Maggie says it, her eyebrows twitch. 

Catherine glances at Lina, finds her friend is staring determinedly at the ground. 

“What has happened, Maggie?” Catherine asks. “Has there been more arrests?”

“None of my family, your grace, no,” Maggie tells her. “Catherine, I do not wish to distress you—”   
“It is too late for that, you may as well tell me,” Catherine demands. 

“His grace has taken Mary Boleyn as a mistress.” 

Catherine feels the familiar pain overwhelm her all at once. The jealousy, the heavy weight that suddenly seems to be crushing her. 

“I see.” 

Catherine stares at the red roses, remembers how Henry used to leave bouquets he collected from the palace gardens in her rooms in the weeks after they were married. Camelot, she used to say. This is our Camelot. 

Catherine’s hands drift to her stomach, cup the growing bulge. She closes her eyes, exhales loudly. 

“Highness?” Lina probes gently. 

Catherine ignores her, shakes her head slightly. 

She thinks of Stafford yet again, his weight, his warmth—

I did what I had to do, she complains, that was different, he was different—

“Is there anything else?” she asks, dragging her eyes open. 

Maggie stares at her, vague signs of anxiousness swirling in her grey eyes. 

“Wolsey has continued his plots regarding the Lutherans,” Maggie tells her. 

“Lina mentioned as such.” 

“Your grace—” Maggie stops herself. “Your grace, I was wondering when you would return to court.” 

Catherine does not even attempt to hide her horror at the idea. 

“Return?” she asks, incredulous. “I do not expect to return to court until close to my confinement, Lady Pole.” 

“Catherine, the only person who dares speak out against Wolsey and his scheming, who can possibly protect my family is you—” 

“Your family is safe,” Catherine tells her tiredly. She’s aware of how Lina takes a small step closer to her, almost as if she’s worried Catherine will fall over. “The charges against Lord Stafford were dropped.” 

“There are rumours, plots—” 

“I am with child, Maggie!” Catherine snaps. 

“People are burning, your grace, you cannot ignore—” 

“I am with child, Maggie,” Catherine repeats. “I have no power, no security, until I give birth to this son in my belly. I must be careful; can you not understand that? I can take no risks – must take every precaution possible.” She stares at Maggie heatedly. 

“This is not Flodden,” Catherine continues. “I am not the woman I was then—I have not the security I once did. I have done what I can, Maggie, but for now—until I give birth to this babe, I can do little else. I must ensure my own survival and most importantly, that of my daughter’s. That of England’s.” 

Maggie appears regretful, if still worried. 

Catherine knows then she can never divulge her secret to this woman – not that she was ever planning to, of course. Catherine has great affection for Maggie, but in this moment, Catherine regrets that she is in this woman’s debt because she had asked her to lie all those years ago. Regrets that this woman knows of one of her greatest secrets. 

“Tell your family to stay at their estates,” Catherine advises finally. “Wolsey—” She stops, rubs at her chest. Burning, she thinks, shaking her head. Catherine looks at Lina, whose expression is grave, if also concerned. It takes Catherine a moment to realize that Lina’s concern is for her. 

I truly do not deserve your friendship, Catherine thinks to herself. 

“Wolsey will not touch your family, Maggie,” Catherine says finally. “My ill health at Stafford’s trial ensured it. Besides, the King seems to have accepted his dear friend back into his good graces, has he not?” 

Maggie nods reluctantly, as if unwilling to accept this truth. 

“Once I give birth to this child,” Catherine continues. “The King’s mood will improve.” 

It must, Catherine thinks. I am not sure I will survive if it does not. 

\--

Catherine visits Mary in her rooms again after their guests have gone to bed. 

Her daughter is on her own bed, so Catherine sits beside her, watching her intently. She thinks of what Maggie said earlier, of people burning. 

Heretics, a voice that sounds suspiciously like her mother whispers. 

Catherine thinks of Lina’s distraught expression weeks ago, the tears in her eyes as she pleaded with Catherine for leniency, to think before she continued on her cause. 

A spark can burn down a city Lord Stafford, Catherine had said, desperate to do something, anything, just to get Henry to smile at her, to prove that she was worthy, to God, to her mother, to anyone. 

I do not wish that burden on you, Catherine thinks, staring at her daughter. Catherine thinks of the babe she lost the night they burned those books and wonders yet again at God’s plans. She thinks then of her mother, of the mighty Isabella. 

She used to hang me by a hook, Joanna whispers, sudden and unwelcome. 

Catherine bites down on the inside of her cheek. There’s a lot she does not know, cannot begin to comprehend. She does not know what God wishes for her—does not even know what she herself deserves, but she does have some semblance about what she does not want for her daughter. 

“Mary,” Catherine begins. “Who am I?” 

Mary appears mildly confused. 

“My mama,” Mary answers, voice small. “The Queen.” 

“Yes, I am those things,” Catherine agrees, her hands curling around Mary’s furs. She ponders her word carefully. “But before I became Queen of England, I was – and still am – a princess of Spain.” 

She pats Mary’s head affectionately. 

“We follow the one true faith,” Catherine tells her. “I was raised in it. But there were other sides to Spain too – many cultures, many faiths. I believe in the one true God, Mary, but I was also raised to appreciate the beauty of Islam and Judaism.” 

“Did your Mama not fight them?” Mary asks. 

Catherine feels her mouth twist. 

“Yes,” she admits. “She did. But Mary, my mother used methods that could be cruel. I loved her dearly, and love her still, but she drove thousands of people from their homes. Many of those people had families who had lived there for centuries. Those that remained were persecuted and isolated – a terrible fate.” 

“Like the Lutherans?” 

Catherine is momentarily taken aback. She was not sure if Mary had heard the whispers at court. Her daughter never ceases to surprise her. 

“Yes,” Catherine says. “Like the Lutherans. And I admit, I was keen to follow my mother’s example. But Mary, though we may believe in the one true faith, it does not mean that others do. Trying to force someone to do so would be unnatural, and their faith would be untrue.” 

“Shouldn’t we punish them for it?” Mary asks, eyes darks. 

“Pity them, maybe,” Catherine tells her. “But I do not believe that people deserve to be punished for what they believe. If we as their sovereigns try and show them the true faith, and they choose, knowing well of the consequences, to not follow it, then that is their decision. So long as they do not harm others with their beliefs, it may be best to allow them to practice in private.” 

“Is Catholicism not the true faith, Mama?” Mary asks her. “Will they not face God?” 

“Mary,” she says sadly. “No one is without sin, and we will all face God’s judgement. Sometimes all that matters is what is in people’s hearts, their intent.” 

Something heavy settles in her chest. 

“Sometimes,” she continues carefully. “Sometimes we all do what we must to survive, Mary. Life can be more complicated than what we are led to believe.” 

Mary appears mildly confused by her words. 

“Never you mind,” she murmurs, patting her on the head again. “You are too young for such concerns, my dear Mary.” 

Catherine bends down to kiss her daughter’s head. 

“Rest, dear girl,” she tells Mary. She smiles tightly at her, before rising. 

iv. 

Catherine knows her time at Eltham is numbered, so she tries to take as much advantage of it as she can. 

She manages to corner Lina in the gardens after she finishes her meeting with the Stewards. She finds her friend with her sons, pointing at the tulips, smiling as they laugh. She rocks the baby in her arms, seems to coo at it. 

Catherine—she tries not to feel any jealousy. Truly, she does. But it is not so easy. Sometimes seeing Lina with her sons reminded her so much of Henry, of the son she lost and had loved so, that Catherine felt as though she could not breathe. But she has not been a good friend to Lina as of late, she knows that. And now with the babe in her womb, Catherine has to try—

“Lina,” she says, calling her friend’s attention. 

Lina glances up at her, startled. 

“Highness,” Lina murmurs, patting her sons’ shoulders in earnest so they address Catherine as well. 

“It’s alright,” Catherine tells her. She smiles at the boys. “There are some toys for you inside, if you like.” 

The boys look at Lina apprehensively. Catherine knows her friend well enough to tell that she shares that uneasiness too, but she nods at the boys, urges them to thank Catherine before they run away. Lina balances the newborn in her arms. 

“How is he?” Catherine asks politely. 

“He is well,” Lina replies. She glances down at her son, and all at once her expression softens. Catherine feels something ache, deep inside then, but sets it aside. 

“Lina,” Catherine begins, clearing her throat. “I wanted to say— I am sorry. For all that has happened.” 

“Highness—"

“I was jealous,” Catherine tells her. “And in my jealousy, in my desperation to search for answers for everything that has happened these past few years, I grew bitter over your good fortunes.” 

“Catherine—” 

“I do not ask for your forgiveness, I merely wished to offer you this apology, in hopes that we could be friends as we once were. As I try to regain some semblance of self—” 

“Catherine,” Lina sighs, expression kind. Always, always, kind. “I am your true friend, you know this. I have wept with you and for you and have striven to serve you as best I can.” 

Catherine feels a lump form in her throat. 

“I know,” she replies. “I know, my good friend. I have asked so much of you and I wish you to know how grateful I am for it. I merely wished to apologize. As the babe within me grows, the more I feel the need to make amends.” 

Lina frowns. 

“Highness,” she says. “All will be well, with this babe. You shall be alright.” 

Catherine’s eyes begin to burn. She blinks away the sensation, tries to regain her composure. You do not know, she wishes to say. What I have done to survive. 

“I hope so,” she murmurs. She rests a hand on her stomach. 

“You are the light, Catherine,” Lina tells her. She rests her hand on Catherine’s forearm. “All will be well.” 

Catherine would like to believe it. She knows one thing for certain – even if she does achieve her daughter’s and her own’s survival in the mortal realm, who knows what God has in store for her at his throne? 

She tried to instill compassion in Mary for others—Mary. If Catherine could protect her from the world, from the games and lying and scheming, she would. 

“I am sorry,” Catherine says again. “For allowing the court to come to how it is now. You were right, I learned to play the game, and well.” Catherine looks down at one of the tulips, its red, wide petals. She bends down, plucks the stem from the ground for Mary. 

“Once I have this child – and God willing it’s a son,” she breathes, closing her eyes. “I will try and fix it. Fix the court, me and Henry—” she cuts herself off. 

She thinks then of Mary Boleyn and Henry, imagines them entangled together, just as she had seen with him and Bessie, and her heart aches. But she cannot focus on that. She cannot. 

“I hope,” Catherine begins again. “That you and your family will be happy here for as long as we remain at Eltham.” 

“We are, highness,” Lina murmurs. “And you and Princess Mary seem happy here also, away from the court.” 

Catherine lowers her hand, carefully ensures the tulip does not crumble. 

“Yes,” she replies faintly. “I suppose we are.” 

\--

Catherine waits with bated breath for months – for blood, for cramps, to lose yet another child. 

It does not happen. 

Her stomach grows and grows steadily. She can scarcely believe it, that God has blessed her so. She wears loose dresses to hide her condition, lest anyone notice that she is a moon behind in her pregnancy. She is careful, even at Eltham. 

Mary asks her questions, and she tries to reassure her of her love, of her dedication to her. She hopes that this child will not cause Mary to believe she has forsaken her. 

Catherine prays and eats and rests and reads and spends as much time with her daughter as she can. 

I love you, she tells Mary regularly. I will take care of you – always. 

Five moons after she fled to Eltham, Catherine receives a letter from Henry. 

Catherine, it reads. 

It is time for you to return to court for the birth of the child. 

I expect you and Mary back shortly. Travel well. 

Henry Rex

“Mary,” she says, voice almost trembling. Maggie and Lina sit nearby. “We must return to court.” 

Mary’s expression dies. 

“Sweetheart,” Catherine sighs, moving to kneel in front of her chair. “I will take care of you, of the both of us. And soon, God willing, you will have a sibling.” 

Mary’s gaze flickers towards Catherine’s growing stomach.   
“A brother?” she asks, voice small. 

“I do not know,” Catherine tells her. She wonders again, just how much her daughter had noticed these past few years. She hates herself for it, is so cross for letting herself think such a thing. “But Mary, you are a Princess of England. You are smart and beautiful and brave, and I love you so very much. I am proud of you.” 

“Will we be together, Mama?” 

Catherine leans over to hug Mary, clutches her to her chest. 

“Yes, sweet girl,” she murmurs into her hair. “We shall be together.” 

This will protect us more than you know, her mind murmurs. This child—this son, will guarantee your future. 

Catherine thinks once again of her night terrors, remembers Mary’s old, somber, and worn-out features and refuses the urge to shudder. 

“We’ll be alright,” she murmurs, hoping beyond hope that it was true. 

v. 

The day they leave Eltham Palace, it is sunny. It pains Catherine more than she desires to admit, leaving their safe haven. She imagines the court – Wolsey, Henry, and feels some of the peace she had gained during her stay in the countryside ebb. 

On the carriage ride to Westminster, Catherine protectively places her hands-on top of her stomach. 

I must keep you safe too, she thinks. I must. 

Henry had said it was their last chance, and however much she might love her husband and believe deep down, under his madness, that he loves her still, Catherine is much too unwilling to put it to the test. 

Mary falls asleep against her shoulder, but Catherine cannot join her. The carriage travels slowly back to Westminster, so instead of it being a few hours ride it takes almost a day. 

You must be careful; she had told the driver. 

Catherine would have no saviour if she were to lose this babe. Stafford was in the country—

No, she tells herself firmly. No.   
I will not demand it of you. 

Catherine closes her eyes then, bites down on her lower lip. How could she possibly ask him to do the same thing twice? 

Hopefully, it would never come to that. 

She would never ask him to risk his life again so, and he would not do it. 

It is that simple. 

When the carriage finally rolls to a stop, Catherine glances down at her sleeping daughter. Mary’s face is smooth and peaceful, her cheeks rosy. She looks like Henry, and even a little bit of Arthur, around the eyes. 

“Mary,” she whispers gently shaking her on the shoulder. Her daughter’s eyes flutter open. “Come—we must go.” 

Maggie and Lina shift a little on the other side of the carriage. Lina’s baby is settled in her arms, sound asleep. Her two sons also drifted off as well. Catherine dusts the skirts of her dress, smooths out any wrinkles. 

She takes a deep breath. Inhales, exhales. 

The door to the carriage opens slowly, the light from the dying sun almost blinding her. I am Queen, she thinks firmly. I cannot bury my face in flowers and ignore my responsibilities. 

But oh how she aches to return, how her feet almost fail her as she stands, Mary close behind her, and exists the carriage, Lina’s husband offering her his arm to assist her. Catherine takes a moment to stare at Westminster. She’s struck by how little she has missed the place.

“The Queen!” a voice announces. 

Catherine redirects her gaze to the front steps, sees a large assemblance of the court, curtsying. And in the centre, standing tall, is Henry. She squints a little as she steps a little forward. His beard has grown slightly longer, or simply curlier. She cannot tell. His crown rests upon his hair, which has grown longer also. His eyes appear to be more bloodshot. 

To his right is Wolsey, dressed in red, and Catherine tries her best not to fume at the sight of him. 

Near the front, she catches sight of Mary Boleyn, and her stomach clenches. She remembers the Boleyn girl’s judgement of Bessie when she was ill in the carriage, nigh on six years ago. He promised he would take care of me, Bessie had told Catherine. That I would have food and a roof over my head. 

Catherine wonders briefly if Henry had promised Mary Boleyn the same – or more. Maybe jewels or a title. She tries not to think on it. Mary Boleyn’s eyes are planted firmly on the ground. Catherine is not sure what to make of that. 

She looks back at Henry, lets her gaze drift further down the people closest to him, Mary, who is smiling at her, Charlie Brandon—

Stafford? 

Catherine almost stops walking at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a black doublet, with a white tunic peeking out at the top and by his sleeves. He does not look injured or beaten or downtrodden. Instead, he looks at her with an intense gaze. Catherine does not miss how his eyes lower to her stomach, rest upon the growing bulge. 

He had to have known she was with child, but Catherine suspects it was still a shock all the same to have it confirmed. 

You are beautiful, Catherine. 

She almost flinches. Catherine tries her best to hide her sudden panic, the fast beating of her heart. She reaches behind her for Mary’s hand, holds onto it. For her daughter, she can play this game. She knows it. But for the love of God, she does not know why he is here, why he would risk it—

Did Henry ask him back? Maggie did not mention it. Catherine is tempted to look back at her friend, see what her expression is like at the appearance of her cousin, but dares not do so. That would certainly draw attention. 

Catherine forces herself to look at Henry, draws to a stop a few paces in front of him, Mary by her side. Still holding on her daughter’s hand, Catherine sinks into a deep curtsy, with Mary following suit. 

“Your majesty,” she says, eyes low. 

She hears footsteps approach them. 

“Rise,” Henry says. 

Catherine complies, stares at her husband, shifting herself slightly in front of her Mary. But Henry spares no glance for her or Catherine either. Instead, his gaze is deadened on her stomach, on the babe in her womb.   
“The travel did not harm the child?” he questions. 

“No, your majesty,” Catherine returns. “We made the journey slow.” 

He nods curtly, finally deigns to look her in the eye. 

“Good,” he tells her simply. He glances quickly at Mary. “Welcome back to court. You must go and rest. My son is tired.” 

Catherine nods, forces a smile onto her lips. 

He extends his arm towards her, and with a quick look at Mary and then Maggie, Catherine takes it, sure that Maggie is at her daughter’s side as Henry leads her inside the castle. She looks over her shoulder to find Mary staring at her, eyes wide, and resolves to find her later. 

As they move into the castle, Catherine catches Stafford’s eyes once more. 

What are you doing here? She wishes to ask. Leave, go home, be safe. 

Almost as if he understands her, Stafford slowly, but unmistakably, shakes his head. 

\--

Catherine stands in the middle of her chambers, struggling for her breath. She isn’t panting or hurting from exercise, but she feels as though an unexplainable weight has been shifted onto her chest, and she knows not what to do with it. The servants had brought her chests from the carriages, had unpacked everything with a quickness that she would have been impressed by if she were not so occupied. 

She catches sight of one of her crown on the table, resting on a cushion, polished and gleaming. The sight of it makes her feel as though she’s aged a thousand years. 

She must survive this – must give birth to a son. She must. If she is to have any chance of—

Of what? 

She needs to save her country, cement her daughter’s future and her own. That is her priority. 

And what of Henry? A voice inside of her whispers. 

Catherine thinks of their reunion earlier and cringes. She still yearns for him, is the thing. 

And we will have another son, and he will be strong because we are so strong, he had told her once. Catherine’s heart pains so strongly she almost cries out. She has made amends with her daughter, with Lina, has tried to find God, and yet she does not know how to disentangle herself from Henry, to separate herself from this need to have his love, his affection, to have him look at her as though she were the light of his life once again. She craves it, and yet—

“Catherine.” 

She turns to stare at Henry, finds him standing in the doorway. 

Catherine steps slightly backward so her back hits the bedpost. She ignores the collision as Henry moves further into the room. 

“Henry,” she murmurs, linking her hands together. 

He’s shaved in the few hours since she saw him last. A part of her wishes to reach out and cup his cheek but she does not. What right do you have to do that? Another part of her whispers tauntingly. You betrayed him. 

“Are you well?” he asks, voice suddenly hard. 

“Yes,” she says hurriedly. “Merely tired.” 

He observes her carefully. 

“You must take care,” he tells her. It sounds as much like a warning as it does advice. 

“I am, Henry.” 

“And your stay in Eltham was pleasant?” 

“Yes. Mary enjoyed the countryside also.” 

“Hmph.” 

His gaze drifts down her stomach yet again, and Catherine cannot help but stiffen when he places a hand on her stomach. 

“My son,” he says. “My heir. My image. My legacy. This must be it, for God to show me I am blessed.” 

“Yes,” she agrees quietly. “A son from my womb to inherit the throne of England.” 

His hand tightens on her stomach and she tries not to wince. 

“You know what’s at stake, Catherine,” he tells her.   
Catherine tries not to feel afraid at the look in his eyes, at that quiet coldness the absence of any warmth or familiarity. 

I am a daughter of Spain, she thinks again. I have set my course, and now I must see it through. 

“Do not worry,” she replies finally. “I am well aware.” 

vi. 

Catherine tries her best to stay in her chambers for the next few days. She attends court sparingly, attends to Mary and tries not to stress herself too much. 

If any of the court is taken aback by her recent lack of interference in state of affairs, it does not reach her ears. Perhaps they all know of Henry’s madness. 

Have you read the mood at court, Madame? Thomas Boleyn had asked her once. 

She wonders if they all had noticed before her, if she had simply been too blind for years to recognize the truth; that she had never achieved any Camelot after all—or if she had, it had all been torn asunder. 

After Catherine’s passionate outburst at Eltham, Maggie seems to have understood the need to leave Catherine alone. 

Catherine is resting in bed, the door to her antechambers open when she catches Maggie staring out the window, fascinated by the occupants in the gardens. 

“Maggie,” she calls out, shifting against her pillows. “What is it?” 

Her friend glances at her quickly, then redirects her gaze. 

“Nothing, your grace,” Maggie murmurs. “I was merely watching my son in law and his father.” 

“I see,” Catherine says, heart dropping. “Is all well?” 

She sees Maggie’s hands tighten at her sides. 

“Yes, your grace,” Maggie tells her. “The storm has seemingly passed. I just--” 

Catherine waits for her to find the words. 

“It is quite strange,” Maggie comments, staring outside the window at the gardens. “You would think my cousin would seek to avoid Wolsey, but he does not.” 

“What do you mean?” Catherine asks, mindful to keep her voice even. “He has confrontations with Wolsey?” 

“No,” Maggie shakes her head. “In fact, I daresay he has grown less willing to confront Wolsey after—” Maggie pauses. “After his trial. But he still remains at court, despite the risk.” 

“As do you.” 

“Yes, your grace, but you and I are friends.” 

“The King and Lord Stafford are not?” 

“Forgive me, your grace, I did not mean to insult the King—” 

“There is no need to apologize, Maggie,” Catherine interrupts. “It is reasonable to state that a friendship would no longer be as strong after such a trial.” 

“Yes, I suppose.” 

Catherine thinks of for you, my queen, I will beg and shudders. 

“He must be careful,” Catherine murmurs, rubbing her throat. Catherine shifts from the spot in her bed. She remembers Stafford in his cell—how close he had been to being executed. She would not have him risk his life now over—

Over what? A voice inside her questions shrewdly. Over you?

Catherine shakes her head. She cannot think of such things and yet—

Is she not responsible for him, in some way? After what she has asked of him? What he has done for her? 

Catherine shoves the covers off of her body and carefully climbs out of bed. 

“Maggie,” she says. “I wish to walk in the gardens. Help me dress.” 

\--

Catherine notices a few clouds in the sky as she walks through the castle gardens. They are beautiful, there is no doubt, but she misses the ones at Eltham with a sudden pang. Misses the tulips and roses she had commissioned, the way Mary could run freely among the rows and smell the flowers sweet scent. 

She passes by a small group of ladies, barely notices as they curtsy. As she turns the corner, she—

“Your grace,” Mary Boleyn gasps, sinking into a deep curtsy. “I apologize deeply—"

“You must watch yourself,” Maggie tells her coldly, checking to see if Catherine is alright. 

She watches the younger girl, the way her eyes seem pinned to the ground, unable to look at Catherine. She’s reminded then of the look of terror on Bessie’s face as they rode to Hampton Court during the outbreak of the sweat, the innocence in her eyes. 

“It’s fine,” Catherine says, looking away. “Come, Maggie.” 

They carry on walking. Catherine passes by the stone bench by the pond when she notices Stafford and his son standing nearby the water. 

“Ah,” Maggie says, smiling. She walks towards them. “How is my son in law?” 

Henry Stafford smiles at the elder woman, greets her warmly. He bows when he catches sight of Catherine. 

“Your grace,” he says, catching his father’s attention. 

Stafford turns to look at her, bows appropriately. 

“Where is my daughter?” Maggie asks. “I tried to seek her out earlier, but I could not find her.” 

“Come, lady mother,” Henry Stafford tells her, offering Maggie his arm. “I saw her talking to the King’s sister earlier, I shall guide you.” 

Catherine watches the two of them walk away. The boy looks so much like his father though his hair colour must be his mother’s. Catherine turns to look at Stafford again. 

“Hello,” she greets. She gestures towards the bench. “Will you join me?” 

Catherine watches as he nods wordlessly. She sinks down onto the cold stone, watches the still water. The lilies have come into bloom. She can appreciate their beauty at least. 

She glances at Stafford, finds him doing the same thing. 

“He seems happy,” she says. 

He looks at her. 

“Your son,” she adds. “And Lady Ursula.” 

“They are,” he agrees, looking away. “When his mother passed, I was worried for him since they were close. But he’s settled into married life quite well.” 

Catherine is reminded of Rosa then. Of her dear, innocent friend whose heart was broken by this man Catherine has entrusted her life and her daughter’s with. It makes something bitter and heavy weigh down on her shoulders. 

“Is—” he stops, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Has the pregnancy been difficult—” 

“No,” Catherine interrupts, shaking her head. She looks around to make sure no one is nearby. When her fears are abated, she looks at him meaningfully. “All is well, Lord Stafford, you must not concern yourself.” 

A small sound escapes his lips, almost as if he were incredulous. Catherine frowns at him. 

“I just worry for you, your grace,” he tells her. 

“Is that why you returned to court?” she asks, standing. “Out of some duty? Some need to remind me of—” She stops, unable to voice it. 

He stands too, though he is at least careful to keep his distance. 

“No,” he tells her softly – kindly. “Your grace, you are not in my debt. I do not seek to hold anything over you—” 

“Don’t you?” Catherine asks. “This is a game; in case you have not noticed. A game you very nearly lost.” 

“I know that, your grace—” 

“If you did, you would stay at your states and keep your head down,” she whispers harshly. Catherine tries her hardest to keep her expression smooth, in case anyone stumbles upon them. 

“I cannot do that, Catherine,” he tells her. “I cannot.” 

She looks away. She doesn’t want to ask him why – she doesn’t want to know the answer. It infuriates her all the same. 

“I stayed away for five moons, your grace,” he murmurs. “That is long enough. If I were to disappear entirely and not remain in the King’s view—I’m well aware of how dangerous the game is. I am more than willing to play it.”   
Catherine almost scoffs. 

“I can only do so much for you,” she tells him, voice strained. “For you and your family. You know—” 

You of all people know how precarious my position is. You know the lengths that I have gone to to survive. 

When she looks at him, there is no judgement in his eye, only tenderness. 

“Your grace,” he says. “I am your devoted servant.” 

And Catherine—

Catherine is finding it very hard to breathe. A myriad of emotions flutter about inside of her, threatening and clambering to break free, and her head begins to ache. No, she thinks, trying to clear her head. 

As devoted as you were to Rosa? Part of her wants to snipe but she forces the words down. 

That would hardly be fair, would it? After all he has done to her—after how kind he has been. Catherine does not know much, but she knows that the man sitting beside her is different to the man who broke Rosa’s heart all those years ago. She cannot say that to him, she cannot. And yet, she is struck by this strange desire to wound him, to—

“Catherine,” Mary Brandon greets. 

Catherine turns to look at Henry’s sister, smiles widely at the sight of her. 

“Mary,” she exclaims. They move closer to each other simultaneously, grab a hold of each other’s hands. 

“Oh, it is good to see you Catherine,” the younger woman sighs, linking their arms together. Over her shoulder, Mary calls out: “Lord Stafford, I am stealing away our beloved Queen if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course, my lady,” he utters. Catherine assumes that he bows, but she does not turn around to check. 

“How have you been?” Mary asks her, as they stroll around. “I do hope Eltham was pleasant.” 

“It was,” Catherine tells her, smiling a little. “Mary enjoyed it too.” 

“Good,” Mary says, grinning a little.   
“You seem very happy.” 

“Do I?” Mary questions. “Catherine, I must tell you—I have not even told Charles yet. I am with child.” 

“Oh my,” Catherine gasps, staring at the younger girl. “Mary, I am so glad to hear it.” 

Her sister-in-law laughs. 

“As am I,” Mary responds. “After all these years, I had almost given up hope.” 

“Charles will be thrilled,” Catherine says. There’s a small hit of envy lurking in her stomach. Charlie loves Mary, risked everything for her. She can’t help but me reminded of what her and Henry used to be like. 

“Yes,” Mary breathes. “I am sure he will be. And you, your child is not troubling you?” 

Catherine shakes her head, places her free hand on her stomach. 

“No,” she says, looking down. “No, he is not troubling me.” 

“Catherine,” Mary murmurs. She looks at her friend then. “How is—” 

Mary stops, seems to amend herself. 

“Henry seems eager for the birth.” 

“Eager,” Catherine repeats. “He wishes for a son, as is his right.” 

Mary hums quietly. 

“We were both glad, Charlie and I, that you managed to get Stafford pardoned.” 

Catherine is almost tempted to caution her. But she is the King’s sister – if she is not safe, then who is? 

“As was I.” 

“My brother has much changed.” 

“The King does what he thinks to be right,” she repeats. “This son will help cool his temper.” 

Mary glances at her. Catherine stiffens at the look in her eye, the doubt. After all, they had thought her own Mary was a son too. 

“I do hope so,” Mary tells her, her beautiful features carved in a grave expression. “You have no idea how I wish it.” 

Of course I do, Catherine wishes to say. Out of everyone at court, I wish things to return to how they used to be more than anyone. 

“Wolsey has started to burn people,” Mary whispers, looking carefully around them. “Burn them Catherine. You could see the smoke from the center of the city. Could smell it.” 

“And what would you have me do?” Catherine demands, remembering the last time she was with child and supported Wolsey on his expeditions. “I cannot lose this child, Mary. I cannot.” 

“I know that,” the younger woman replies. “But you cannot ignore the suffering of your people either.” 

Catherine looks away. 

“I started this,” she says uselessly. “I urged Wolsey on in Henry’s name because I—” 

I wanted to seem useful, she almost screams. I wanted to stop feeling so helpless. I wanted my husband to smile at me. 

Mary’s hand grazes her arm. 

“I know,” Mary says gently. “And I do not judge you for it. But we can both agree that burning people alive without trial and with torture is not just either.” 

“Why don’t—” Catherine stops, notices for once the distant fear in Mary’s eyes. It cannot be for herself for surely Henry would not execute her, his own sister. Catherine’s heart stills in her chest when she thinks of his threats against their daughter, but she shoves it aside. No, it’s not for herself, Catherine thinks, but her husband. 

That was it. Mary was scared for Charlie Brandon and that is why she did not speak with Henry. 

Oh God, Catherine thinks, feeling ill. 

“I must lay down,” she mumbles. She stops walking, places a hand on her head. 

“Catherine?” Mary questions. 

“I’m fine,” she waves a hand at Mary. “Please, I just need a moment.” 

Calm, she thinks. I must calm.   
But how can she calm herself? So much relies upon this child being born – being alive, being a boy. She cannot rest. 

And yet, Catherine still has a duty to her people. She has left them these past few moons to suffer under Wolsey’s influence and Henry’s whims. She must do something for them. Mary must see – must know what Queens can do. 

“I will do what I can,” she settles on finally.

Mary smiles at her and Catherine is suddenly reminded of Meg, the sister she has turned her back on. She gulps, looks away. 

“I will try,” she repeats again. 

-

It’s been nigh on a fortnight since their return to Westminster, and Catherine has not sat at a council meeting once. She used to regularly, even after her and Henry had fallen apart. She wonders briefly how it’s changed, but finds that it does not matter, ultimately. 

I will do what I can, she had told Mary. 

Catherine had spent the rest of the day with her daughter, trying to calm the unease in her heart and failing. It is the right thing to do, she knows it. But Catherine is no longer sure if her best is good enough anymore. 

Catherine stands by the window in her antechambers, stares at into the gardens. It’s a cloudy day, the sky a grey canvas, which makes the smoke so difficult to spot. 

“What is that?” she asks, turning to stare at Lina. “Lina, do you know what that is?” 

Her friend keeps her head down and when she finally manages to look Catherine in the eyes her expression is heavy. 

“It is burnings, highness. Officers announced it earlier today.” 

Catherine looks from her and to the window and back again. 

“Oh dios mio,” she breathes, hands rising to her mouth. 

“How often has this been happening?” she asks. 

Lina hesitates—

“Tell me,” Catherine demands. 

“I am not sure,” Lina replies. “There were a few when we were at Eltham but—" 

Catherine shakes her head. 

“No, no,” she whispers. “Oh, God.” 

She stares out the window again, and that wretched smoke and wretches on the spot. 

“Alright,” she says, moving to find her crown. I am Catherine of Spain, Queen of England, a Spanish Princess. I am capable. I have a duty to my people. To God. Please show me the way, show me. 

She finds it in her bedchamber.

Catherine places her crown on her head, exhales under its weight. 

She catches Lina’s eye, who is watching her with poorly concealed concern. 

It will be alright, she almost says but doesn’t. 

Catherine tries not to make promises she know she may not be able to keep. 

The walk to court is brisk and the outrage still thrumming in her body makes her shake.

“Go somewhere else, Lina,” Catherine tells her friend. “I must do this alone.” 

Lina almost looks as though she were going to protest, but Catherine does not let her, moving forward.

The doors to the court swing open and all at once Catherine is reminded of Stafford’s trial. Henry glances at her curiously, says nothing as she settles into the throne beside him. 

Wolsey pauses in the middle of his speech, stares at her. 

“Your grace,” he says finally. 

“Cardinal. I hear you are speaking of your approach to deal with the Lutherans today,” Catherine says, back straight. 

His eyes narrow slightly. 

“Yes,” he replies. “Our interests in this matter were aligned, last you were at court.” 

“I agree we must protect God’s Church,” Catherine allows. “And try and convert these lost souls. But I never agreed to burning them. Never.” 

“That is the price of heresy, your grace.” 

“Only if one is not given the opportunity to repent and return to the faith,” Catherine retorts. 

She turns and looks at Henry, who is watching her intently. 

“Your majesty, these are your people,” she tells him. “They have been tempted by the devil. We should try and convert them, save them, protect their souls – not burn them at the first opportunity.” 

“You said it yourself, your grace,” Wolsey interrupts. “A spark can burn down a city.” 

“Yes but burning people at the stake will fan the flames and make them martyrs,” Catherine returns. “Your majesty, I only beg for leniency.” 

“Showing leniency to heretics will only spur them on, your majesty. It will encourage them.” 

“Burning the leaders has not ceased the spread of this religion, Cardinal,” Catherine cuts in crossly. “Your majesty—” 

“Enough,” Henry says, lifting his hand to halt both of them. “The Queen has made some valid arguments, Wolsey. I shall need time to think on it. Halt the burnings.” He pauses, strokes his chin. “For now.” 

Catherine exhales lightly in relief. She settles back into her throne, watches as Wolsey eyes her closely, expression closed off. Hate me if you dare, she thinks, resting her hands on her stomach. Henry did still heed her counsel. It made her feel slightly better. She cannot help but look at her husband, hope that he is looking at her with approval. 

He is not, of course. Catherine feels her small victory die a bit. She still missed him. Missed the way they used to be. Life was better then, lighter. Happier. She loves him, even now, even after everything. She still craves his approval. 

But how can she rebuild their relationship after what she did? How? 

She shifts in her throne, tries to get comfortable when—

Catherine freezes in her spot. There’s an odd sensation blooming in her stomach where the babe is. No, she thinks, frozen with terror. Please no. She glances at Henry who has not noticed her sudden alarm. 

“I will leave you, husband,” she murmurs, rising. Catherine suddenly feels damp with sweat, tries her best not to pale with fear. 

Catherine leaves the court, struggling not to press her hands to her stomach. Dear God, she thinks, forcing her features to stay straight. No no no, she thinks, quickening her steps. She has no idea where she is going, only has the overwhelming desire to go away away away. 

She brushes against someone – she is not quite sure who and apologises hurriedly. 

“Forgive me,” she mumbles, walking away before the person can respond. She feels another sharp movement in her belly and she bites down on her lip to mask her fear. Catherine makes her way down the hall, manages to push a vaguely familiar door open. 

She has somehow led herself to the private library and Catherine manages to make her way behind a bookshelf before promptly sinking to the floor. 

“No,” she begs, curled over her knees, her forehead resting against the cold floor. “No, God, please, please—” 

She quietens as the door opens. She forces herself upright, slides herself deeper down the row so the skirts of her dress are not visible. Catherine brings her hand to her mouth, bites down on the skin to muffle any noises. Leave, she yells at the person who has followed her. Please leave.

“Your grace?” 

It’s Stafford. 

Catherine lowers down her head, chokes out some wounded sound that he must hear for he immediately looks down the pews until he finds her. 

“Catherine,” he says, hurrying to her side. He kneels down on the ground beside her, and Catherine cannot stop herself from seeking his warmth, from burying her head in his shoulder. 

“I followed you,” he tells her. “I could tell something was wrong. Cather—your grace, what is it?” 

She turns around, clutches her stomach, where she feels the same pain yet again. 

“He’s dying,” she says, tears streaming down her face. She begins to tremble uncontrollably, and she feels an arm curl itself around her waist, tug her back against his chest. She is scarcely aware of it now. “There is pain—odd movement—I will lose him, God is taking yet another son from me—” 

“No, He’s not,” Stafford refutes softly. Catherine shakes his arms off of her—she does not deserve it, does not deserve his kindness, his decency, his warmth. She has failed, dragged him into sin for no purpose at all, has failed her daughter--

“He will die,” she gasps, lips trembling. She cups her stomach. “No, please, he will die—” 

Stafford shakes his head, lets her fall back into his arms. 

“No, he won’t,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “The babe is alright, Catherine, it will all be alright—"

Catherine cannot help her body shaking as she lies back in his arms. 

“He will die,” she says again. She shakes her head, tries to hold onto the bulge in her stomach, tries to ease the sudden movement, the discomfort. “Please God, don’t take him from me.” 

“He won’t,” Stafford tells her, hands stroking her back. “Catherine, look. Look at me. There is no blood.” 

Catherine cannot bear to open her eyes—please, she cannot bare it—

“Look at me,” he says, gently cupping her cheeks. 

Catherine’s eyes fly open at the motion. He is close. Very close. 

His expression is kind, yet adamant. 

“There is no blood, Catherine,” he tells her. “None. Look.” 

Catherine’s shoulders shake as she dares—as she forces herself to look. There is nothing. She looks at the skirts of her dress, but there is no blood. No stains. The discomfort has faded. Catherine remembers the boy she had lost after Flodden, his small, lifeless body that had been ripped out of her as she screamed and cried into the night. 

But there is no body here, no blood. Her child is safe in her womb. 

Catherine sags against him, a cry of relief escaping her lips. 

“He’s alright, Catherine,” he tells her, lips grazing her forehead. “You’re alright. He was just moving, that is all.” 

Just as she had months ago, she buries her face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” she breathes. “Thank you.” 

“I am just glad you’re alright,” he murmurs. 

Catherine does not know how long she leans against him, trying to regain her composure and stop the rapid beating of her heart. This cannot last, she knows that. Her ladies will be looking for her, councillors, everyone. Anyone could walk in. 

It is that possibility that forces her to pull away. 

One of his hands is resting on the small of her back. She cannot help but gaze at his face, observing him carefully. She can see a small nick on his chin from where he had shaved his beard. His eye is a wonderful green. 

“You are a kind man, Lord Stafford,” Catherine tells him. 

She reaches for his other hand, places a kiss to the ring on his finger. She hears his breath hitch in his throat.

“Catherine,” he says, voice low. 

She looks at him then, his desire plain on his face, and something she can’t quite place – something she doesn’t want to place. Something warms in her stomach, tugs her towards him. His gaze flickers down to her lips and Catherine, for one fleeting moment where her entire body burns for him, for the feeling of his lips on hers and she—

She can’t. Shame and hatred and grief wash over her so quickly Catherine jumps to her feet. She almost falls over due to how quickly she had stood up.

“I must go, Lord Stafford,” she tells him, swiping under her eyes in case there is still any tear tracks left. 

He begins to climb to his feet, mouth opening--

“Catherine—” 

“I must go,” she interrupts, averting her gaze. 

She takes a few steps towards the door. 

“Take a moment before you leave, lest anyone sees us together,” she says. She does not turn to look at him. She cannot bare to look at him, to see the expression on his face. 

Catherine flees before he can say anything.

-

That night, Henry comes to her rooms. 

“Catherine,” he says, stalking up to her. 

He grabs her by the wrist, his gaze verging upon a glare. 

“While you have a quick mind, wife, I do suggest you stay out of state affairs and rest as the child inside of you grows,” he tells her, grip tightening. 

Catherine remains silent. 

“After all,” he adds. “That is all that is expected of you.”

He lets her go, eyes her one last time before stalking out of the room. Catherine cradles her wrist, the pale skin already bruising. 

vii. 

As her confinement approaches, Catherine tries to spend as much time with Mary as she can. She prays to God for hours some nights, begging for a son to secure England’s future, to secure Mary’s and her own. 

The physicians have not noticed anything amiss with her body. They have all bought the deception and for that Catherine is as relieved as she can be. She has done what needed to be done. 

If she were to give birth to a live child, it would have been worth it. 

The days slip by and Catherine watches as her stomach grows and grows. Mary is endlessly curious about it, and it makes her laugh, like little else does these days. Catherine learns the goings on of the court from Maggie and Lina, even her sister-in-law, but she does not attend a council meeting again. 

The bruise Henry had given her faded after two days. 

Arthur would not have done this, a part of her whispers. Neither would Stafford. 

And Catherine knows that as easy as she knows how to breathe. 

She tries not to think it, to put it away, but she cannot. 

The day before Catherine is set to begin her confinement, she attends chapel. She dismisses her ladies, preferring to walk alone. Thankfully, it is empty when she arrives. 

Catherine kneels down on the cold stone, links her hands together. 

Please God, she thinks. Let the babe be healthy. Let me guarantee my daughter’s future, my country’s. Please. 

She cups her belly, feels her son shift and squirm within her womb. He needs to come early if their plan is to work, lest anyone grow suspicious, especially Henry. 

Catherine closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. 

“Your grace?” 

Catherine tilts her head but does not turn to look at Stafford. 

He does not leave or walk away. She feels his gaze boring into her back and resists the urge to shiver. 

“What are you doing here?” Catherine asks simply.   
,  
The chapel is empty but—she does not feel safe, with only the two of them together. She cannot. How can she, after everything they’ve done? 

“I—I wished to see you,” he tells her softly. Catherine hears his footsteps move closer. “Before you went into confinement.” 

Something inside of her bristles. She does not know how to deal with his emotion, his tenderness. It is still so foreign to her, so distant. And she cannot accept it. 

“And so you have,” she interrupts, carefully rising to her feet. He looks as though he wishes to help her but thinks better of it. “And I must return to my chambers.” 

She gazes at him then, feels something rise in her throat. 

“I will do my best,” she says finally. “To deliver a healthy child.” To make your sacrifice worth it. 

Catherine sees him open his mouth, then close it. 

“Everything will be alright, Catherine,” he murmurs. 

“You mustn’t call me that,” she snaps, wiping at her brow. “It does neither of us any good. I’m sorry.” 

And she picks up her skirts and walks away. 

-

The next day, Catherine attends the mass, drinks the wine and intakes the spices the priests give her. Mary and her ladies attend her in the procession, and after Catherine has had holy water sprinkled over her, they return under ceremony to her chambers. 

Henry waits outside, along with Charlie Brandon, Wolsey, and—

Stafford. Of course, he is there. 

Catherine does not understand it – cannot understand it. Desire does not motivate a person so. 

“Catherine,” Henry murmurs, eyes dark. He beckons her closer. “Do your duty.” 

Catherine cannot bring herself to respond. She nods mutely and enters her chambers, shivering when the door finally closes behind her, removing her and her ladies from the outside world. Catherine moves to the crucifix she had left on a table, wraps it around her hand. 

In this moment, she’s less concerned about the babe’s gender and more about the timing. Please let it be an early birth, she thinks. Please. 

viii. 

The babe moves in her womb a lot. 

Everytime it happens Catherine freezes with terror, waiting for blood, for pain, but it never comes. She never lets her guard down, however. Her heart has been broken too many times. 

As the seventh month of her pregnancy approaches, Mary is there, visiting, when the babe moves. 

Catherine is in the midst of reading to her daughter, propped up against her pillows, when the baby kicks at her. She breaks off with a gasp, presses a hand to her stomach. 

“Mama are you alright?” 

Catherine closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out loudly. 

“Yes Mary,” she replies. “The babe is kicking is all.” 

“Really?” Mary questions, resting her elbows on the bed.   
Catherine opens her eyes then, glances at her daughter with a smile. 

“Really,” she teases, smiling. “Come, place your hands on it.” 

Mary does so and gasps with delight. 

“They are strong, Mama.” 

“Yes,” Catherine agrees. “Yes, he is.” 

“How do you know it is a boy, Mama?” 

“I don’t,” Catherine admits. “Not for certain. It is the custom to assume a child is a boy.” 

Mary nods, leaves it at that. 

“Does it hurt? Him kicking like that?” 

“Sometimes. He keeps me awake at night, but I am glad for it.” 

“Glad?” 

“It means he has character,” Catherine replies. “That he has fight.” 

Mary wrinkles her nose. 

“I hope I do not fight with him often, Mama.” 

Catherine laughs. “I am certain that you will be a perfect elder sister, Mary.” 

Mary’s expression grows more neutral. 

“Mama, will I have to have children one day?” her daughter asks quietly. 

“It will happen in due time, after your marriage to your cousin Charles,” Catherine tells her. “When you are much, much older.” 

“Will he love me, Mama?” Mary’s voice is very small. 

“I am sure of it,” Catherine tells her. “I know my nephew quite well. He is a good man, gentle but strong. A good Christian. He will respect you, as any man and wife should. Accept nothing less.” 

“Is that my choice, Mama?”   
Mary never ceases to surprise her. 

“Yes,” Catherine tells her fiercely. “It is. We accept the love we think we deserve, Mary.” 

There’s a knock on the door, and Catherine looks to find Maggie standing in entryway with a tray of food. Catherine watches as Mary runs to and shifts uncomfortably against the pillows.

\--

Catherine is woken later that night by the babe kicking her fiercely. 

“Shh,” she whispers, cupping her stomach. “Let me rest, little one.” 

The terror is there, of course it is, but Catherine is otherwise glad that he is so present, so determined. 

It means he is strong, Mary had said earlier. 

And it did. 

“I will take care of you,” Catherine murmurs into the night. “You shall be so loved. You will be the light of England, along with Mary.” 

The babe’s kicks soften. 

“I love you,” Catherine whispers, though she knows she should not just in case. But she does. She cannot help it. It matters not how the babe came to be, only that it is there, that it is alive. 

“I cannot wait to meet you,” Catherine says, before drifting back to sleep. 

\--

All Catherine can do really is wait. 

Wait for the babe to arrive and pray it comes before anyone notices any discrepancies. Pray that the babe is healthy. 

She is doing just that when her sister-in-law visits her in her confinement. Mary is showing now, and her cheeks are red and happy. 

“It is good to see you,” Catherine tells her genuinely. 

Mary eyes her stomach. 

“How are you feeling?” The younger girl questions. 

“Well. The babe is strong, eager to join us, I think. Perhaps the birth will be soon.” 

Mary smiles at her and laughs. 

“And you?” Catherine asks. “How are you?” 

Mary rests a hand on her own stomach. 

“I am well,” Mary replies. “But I felt wretched for weeks. I could barely keep anything down, it was dreadful. Meg said she experienced the same with James.” 

“Yes, the vomiting is horrible,” Catherine allows. She doesn’t add that she was too relieved to be pregnant to truly mind any of it all. 

“What brings you here?” Catherine teases. “It must have been important for you to go through the process of churching and being released back into the world within a day.” 

“I am leaving for the country with Charles for the birth of the babe. We think fresh air and distance from the court will aid me.” 

“Ah, following in my footsteps.” 

“Ha. I suppose so, yes.” Mary’s expression turns serious. “I know I thanked you before, but I wished to tell you so again: thank you, for standing up to Wolsey. Few would have dared.” 

Catherine knows what Mary really means is Henry. She tries not to think on it. 

“My people needed me,” Catherine responds finally. “I will not have England turn into another inquisition.” 

Catherine, to her own daughter, has criticized her mother worse than this, but it still hurts to say.

“I just- I wished to tell you this, Catherine. To thank you for everything.” 

“Mary?” 

Her sister-in-law looks down at the bedclothes. 

“You have done a great deal for me,” Mary murmurs. “Encouraged me to pursue my own choice like you did with Meg. You inspired me, Catherine.” 

“Mary,” Catherine begins, heart pounding. “What brought this on?” 

The other woman rests a hand on her small stomach. 

“I am frightened,” Mary whispers. “I’m sorry to put the burden on you, but Charlie worries for me enough as it is, and I dare not say anything to the physicians for fear they might think me mad-“ 

Catherine recalls now that Henry’s mother did die in childbirth. Mary had seen her, bloodied and pale, stripped of life. Whatever Catherine’s own feelings about the woman, for a child to see their mother in such a way would have been a horrendous thing. 

Catherine leans forward as much as she can, manages to strain her back enough to reach Mary’s hands. She holds onto them tightly. 

“You are strong,” Catherine tells her. “So very strong. I had nothing to do with it.” 

Mary swipes at her eyes. 

“Yes you did,” Mary refutes softly. “I saw how you fought to be Henry’s queen for years. You had no family here, no one to support you, and yet you knew your own destiny and followed it.”

Catherine does not know what to say. She looks down at her hands, traces the visible blue veins. 

“I did what I needed to do to survive,” she murmurs, throat burning. If you knew how much, you would not praise me. 

She jumps when Mary leans forward and captures her hands in her own, grip gentle. Her dark eyes are nothing but kind. 

“And that,” Mary tells her, “You have done well – and most of all, you have kept a good heard through it all.” 

Catherine laughs at that. 

“No I haven’t, Mary,” she says, somewhat bitterly. “I have been jealous and neglectful and paranoid and—so much.” 

“As we all have,” Mary replies calmly. “But you have always wanted was what best for England, for your people, for those you love have you not?” 

“I—I suppose.”   
“Sometimes,” Mary says. “Sometimes I think that our mistakes are only important because of what we learn from them and how we change afterwards.” 

“When did you become so wise?” Catherine asks, eyes blurry. 

Mary smiles. 

“I’ve been surrounded by a lot of smart women in my life,” she responds. 

They both burst into laughter moments afterwards. 

\--

Catherine stands by the window overlooking the gardens wrapped in a large fur robe that dwarfs her frame. She can see Henry practicing his archery with few of the other noblemen in the gardens. If she squints hard enough, she thinks she can see Mary Boleyn fluttering around him. 

She wraps her arms around herself, tries to soak in some warmth. She feels so cold, tries not to shiver. Her ladies move around behind her – some sewing, reading, cleaning up. 

Catherine’s bones feel old and creaky – she’s scarcely moved these past weeks. The court believes she is close to nine moons with child – she knows she is along less than that. She swallows her discomfort at the thought, tries not to think too much on it. 

But how can she not? If the child does not come within a little more than a fortnight, her secret will be discovered. Her deception. And there will be nothing to protect her from Henry’s fury – no one. Her nephew will forsake her, as will the court. Mary will be discarded and shamed and Catherine—

She closes her eyes, struggles to ease some breath into her lungs. Mayhaps I should have just told the truth, she thinks. The babe in her womb shifts after she thinks it and instantly, she feels guilty. How can she regret it when she knows the babe is alive? That they could survive and be with her, with Mary? 

She cannot fully regret. She cannot. She does not know what that implies about her characters. 

Catherine opens her eyes, looks out the window again. Her eyes trail along the members of the court, who carry about their business, unaware of her presence. She spots Lady Ursula and her gaze darts around, looks for –

Stafford. 

Catherine thinks he is smiling, but she is not quite sure. His son laughs at something he says and Catherine—they had been allies for years, her and Stafford, but suddenly she has forgotten all of his smiles and snark.

Maybe that’s wrong. No, she remembers now. Do not worry, my lady, he had told her the day he lost his eye, I can still admire you with my other eye. 

Catherine had been bemused then. Now, she admires it. 

She wonders what all of his laughter sounds like; imagines all the ways his voice can change. 

She exhales shakily, presses a hand to her chest. She almost feels as though she could reach out and touch him. 

He turns then when his son moves away, and much to her confusion, gazes directly at her window. Catherine pauses at the movement. He had stood there almost eight moons ago, waiting for her to light that blasted candle, to come and risk their lives. He had waited, and he had fulfilled his promise to her. 

Catherine leans forward, presses her hand against the cold glass. She is not sure if he can see her – does not care. He alone knows the truth, the need for the child to come soon. Only he. If she were to be found out, she would not confess his participation. She hopes he knows that. 

He has done so much for her. Has been kind and constant and patient. 

And how have you treated him? 

That’s not fair, a part of her refutes. How can I treat him? There are only so many ways. 

But before all of this, she had been kinder to him had she not? More welcoming. Friendly. 

But now, as she stands there, waiting for her judgement, she—

“Catherine?” Lina asks, breaking the moment. “Are you well?” 

Catherine lowers her hand from the glass instantly, feeling as though she had snapped out of a very deep slumber. 

“Yes,” she responds, feeling anything but. “Quite.” 

She glances out the window, but he has already turned away. 

Catherine’s heart sinks slightly. 

There is only so much either of us can do, she thinks, Lina helping her back to bed. All I can do – all we can do, is wait. 

For, to a degree, they are in this together. He has not let her forget it. 

-

A week after their encounter, Catherine awakes to pain and water between her legs. 

“Lina!” she calls out, shooting up against her headboards. “Maggie! Ladies, send for the midwives!” 

She hears movement stir about in her antechambers, and she calls out again, frustration plain in her voice. After then, Lina and Maggie fly into her chambers, having sent one of the Carey sisters to fetch the midwives stationed in chambers nearby. 

“Highness,” Lina murmurs, dabbing her forehead with a cloth. 

They held her out of bed, let her lean on the bedpost as Maggie pulls her hair back into a simple braid. Catherine is momentarily soothed by the motion, but all she can think of – all she can feel is fear. She is almost stunned by it, trembles precariously against the bedpost. Lina, sensing it, soothes her by rubbing her arms, mistaking her terror for pain. 

If he dies, she thinks, closing her eyes. If this child dies, my heart will break and it would all be for nothing. 

But it’s more than that. 

Catherine loves this babe. She wants Mary to have a brother or sister. She must do this for her, for England, for herself. Catherine cannot afford to be afraid. 

“I am a daughter of Spain,” she whispers. “I am Queen of England. I am a mother. A wife. A daughter. A sister. I must not be afraid. I am not afraid. Do this for Mary,” she gasps out, a wave of pain washing over her. 

Mary. 

Catherine pictures her daughter’s face, so beautiful and innocent. She thinks of Lina then as well, her dear friend who she has loved and been jealous of and tried to protect. She thinks of so many others – Henry’s sister Mary, Meg, Maggie, Stafford—

She remembers him from a few days prior, smiling. 

Everything will be alright, Catherine, he had told her.   
She clings onto the sound of his voice, his words, the memory. All of it. She can do this for Mary, for her people. She will. Catherine is a survivor, and God would not have given her this child, this blessing, if she were not meant to have it. 

She exhales, clutches onto the bedpost with newfound determination. One of her hands slips away, reaches to hold onto Lina’s. Her friend stares at her warmly. 

“You are so strong,” Lina tells her, allowing Catherine to hold onto her hand as tightly as she needs to without even bating an eyelash. “The pain will pass, Catherine. It will.” 

Catherine watches as with one hand; Lina prepares the birthing ropes for her to tug onto when her pain is greatest. Maggie brings a big bowl of water into the room, along with an abundance of cloth. She flashes Catherine a smile as well. 

“Mary,” she says. “You must tell her I am alright, that I love her—” 

“I will, Catherine,” Maggie shushes, guiding her to a chair. Catherine falls upon it gratefully, stretches out her leg before the pain returns. 

“You must,” Catherine continues. “She knows you, she will not be frightened. You must go and tell her, before Henry comes and it is too late. You must, Maggie.” 

Her friend appears to be momentarily conflicted, but ultimately nods. 

“Wait!” Catherine calls out. She had almost forgotten the letter she had written Mary, telling her of how much she loved her. She points to one of the drawers nearby her wardrobe. “There is a letter for Mary, there. Please give it to her.” 

Maggie finds it quickly and hurries out of the room. 

Lina returns to her side with a cup of water, draws it up close to her lips. Catherine gratefully gulps it down, leans her head back as Lina dabs at her forehead again with a cloth. She’s gentle with her, almost as if Catherine were a child. Now, Catherine does not mind. 

As she observes Lina, basks in her care, she cannot help but think that this is what love is. Being what someone needs you to be without having to ask, by being steady and constant and kind. 

The midwife flies into the room quickly afterwards, ordering the rest of her ladies about in a manner which, if it had been at any other time, would have impressed Catherine. But Catherine can think only of Mary, who Maggie has left to quickly comfort, and she can barely comprehend the pain for she is so overcome with worry, with a need to know—

Catherine almost cries out when Maggie returns, cheeks flush with hurry. 

“She is alright, Catherine,” Maggie tells her, crouching by her side. “She is very brave, and says she loves you very much.” 

Catherine very nearly cries – is cut off by a sudden pain that wracks her entire body. 

“Good,” she grits off, biting off a moan. “That is good.” 

The pain is everywhere, almost unending, and she scarcely hears it when Eleanor Carey announces that the King is on his way. Catherine wonders briefly at that and tries to shove away her newfound fear at the sound of Henry’s name. If this child were a girl, Catherine knows not what he will do. 

But she cannot think of that now. She cannot. There is so much—so much discomfort and hurt and—

“Ahh,” she cries out, just as the door to her bedchamber’s slams shut, hiding her from view. 

“I must examine you, your grace,” the midwife states, placing a hand on Catherine’s stomach. Catherine manages to spread open her legs, feels no shame when the woman kneels back a bit, looks between her thighs. 

“We still have a long way,” she says grimly. “Do whatever makes you feel most comfortable for now, your grace.” 

Catherine nods hastily and—

Time passes by strangely. She cannot tell anymore whether it is night or day, morning or evening. She cannot even tell if Henry has arrived outside her room to listen, to await the birth of his heir. 

Catherine paces and sits and stands and squats, but the pain does not abate. Each time, the pain surprises her anew with its passion and ferocity. She screams, and wonders if Henry can hear her, if Stafford can. 

She is not sure if he’s even aware she’s gone into birth, unless Henry has called upon him. 

Strangely enough, the thought of Henry being so deceived does not pain her so much in that instance. The supposed father, and the birth one. 

Catherine muffles a groan against her hands as the agony worsens and the midwife dives down between her legs again, lets out an approving sound. 

“Your grace, your time is near,” she says, helping Catherine out of her chair. Maggie and Lina flank her.   
Lina wraps the rope handles around her wrists, massages the muscles on her back as Catherine gasps, bends over. 

“Push, your grace,” the midwife commands, kneeling beside her. “You must push.” 

Catherine screams as she does, the sound torn out of her from the very core of her being. 

She pushes and pushes, screams and yells and shouts, and can think only of Mary, of her daughter who she must not fail again. Who she must see again. 

“Soon, your grace,” the midwife says. “I can see the head!” 

Catherine almost collapses at that. She tugs at the birthing ropes so hard she’s sure they will snap, but they do not. Maggie and Lina take turns massaging her back, wiping her forehead. They murmur words of encouragement throughout. 

She cares not where the Carey girls are standing about. 

“You are almost there,” Lina tells her. “So close, highness.” 

Catherine pants heavily, knees locked so tightly she’s certain they will snap it two. 

Please, she thinks, imagining Mary’s face. Please. 

With a last shout, she pushes with every fragment of strength she has, pushes with the might of all the hurt, the betrayals, the loneliness, the helplessness she has felt, and feels her child rip out of her her, hears it land in the arms of the awaiting midwife. 

Catherine almost sinks to the ground, her braid undone, face reddened and sweaty, body aching and bloody. I’ve done it, she thinks, choking on a laugh. I’ve done it. 

Lina moves to help the midwife clean the babe, and Catherine, follows her with her eyes, heart in her throat. 

The babe is quiet and Catherine—

“Lina?” she questions, voice small. If the child has died—Catherine feels faint at the thought, as though she would throw herself out a window. Lina wipes the child with water, still kneeling on the ground. Catherine sees the white blanket come away with blood and, she can’t see, she can’t tell--

“A son,” Lina gasps, smiling up at her. Catherine almost collapses with relief. “It is a son, your grace.” 

Maggie moves to support her, links an arm around her waist. 

“Come, your grace,” she says, gently tugging her towards the bed. “Rest.” 

Catherine winces as she lies back down on the bed, still bloody and tired, but she is happy, so happy. God is mysterious, she thinks, choking back on a sob. She can scarcely believe her good fortune, blinks rapidly to ensure that this is not a dream. With what little strength she has, she manages to pinch her own wrist. This is real, she thinks wondrously. I have another child. A son.

“My son,” she calls out, finding the strength to keep her voice even. “Bring him to me.” She follows the midwife as she cradles her son in a blanket, washing him of blood. Catherine remembers how she was with Bessie Blount, how she tore her son away and whisked him off to Henry before she could so much as look at him. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Bring my son to me! Now!” 

Maggie moves to her side. “Your grace, you must rest—” 

“Bring him to me!” she demands, her voice cracking at the end. 

The midwife pauses, looks stricken.

“The King said—” 

“Bring him to me!” Catherine cries, her heart aching. “Please.” 

She holds out her arms. “So help me, I will climb out of this bed and yank him from your arms myself! If the Queen is to die, you will be blamed and hanged—” 

The midwife hurries over at once. Her son is crying now, screeching at the top of his lungs. 

“Come here,” she breathes, carefully supporting him in her arms. He is a comfortable, healthy weight. Catherine falls back against the pillows to support herself. 

“Hello,” she whispers. He’s so small, her boy. He reminds her of her baby Henry. 

“He’s beautiful,” Lina tells her. She’s sitting on the other side of the bed. “He is a true prince, Catalina.” 

Catherine would smile at her, but she’s too enraptured by her son. 

“I will protect you always,” she tells him, bending a little to press a kiss to his head. 

“He looks like you, your grace,” Maggie says. 

Catharine is too tired to agree or disagree, but the thought fills her with pleasure for more than the obvious reasons. A son that is all her own, that has her look. Relief flutters around in her heart. 

“Do you have a name for him?” Lina asks. 

Catherine looks at her then, her heart-warming at the expression on her friend’s face. Lina had always wished the best for her; had protected her, supported her, told her the truth when no one else would. 

“The King mentioned the name Henry,” the midwife supplies unhelpfully. 

“We already had a son named Henry,” Catherine snaps instantly. 

The midwife appears to turn crimson at the reminder, but Catherine does not care. 

They are interrupted by a series of knocks on the door. 

“The King is outside,” a voice announces. “Waiting to see his child and Queen.” 

Catherine resists the urge to sigh. 

“Just a moment,” Maggie calls out. “We must prepare the Queen.” 

Catherine loathes to move, to let go of her son, cannot bear it for a moment, but she lets her ladies run a brush through her hair and hide away the bloody sheets. They tug her nightgown over her head and bring her a new one of soft silk that feels like a feather against her skin. 

Catherine, sore and exhausted, settles back against her pillows once more, her son safely and securely tucked in her arms. She manages to place a firm mask over her face. 

“Let him in,” she says, glancing down at her boy, who has now finally fallen asleep. 

Maggie opens the door, and her ladies and Midwife fall into a deep curtsy. 

“Catherine,” Henry calls out, eyes blazing as he storms into the room. “What is it?” 

Catherine catches sight of Wolsey, Charles Brandon and Stafford hovering in the doorway. Catherine’s heart twists and jumps at the sight of him. Stafford stares at her intently, seems to hover closer to the doorway than the others. 

“A son, your grace,” she tells Henry, redirecting her gaze towards her husband. “I have given birth to a boy at last.” 

For a moment, he seems stunned, his dark eyes wide and watery. She’s reminded for a moment of the man she once knew, of the man she loved, but it is gone in a flash. He is not that man anymore. Their love left them long ago. 

“A son,” he whispers, transfixed by the bundle in her arms. 

“A son?” Stafford questions behind him, voice shaky. 

“Yes,” Catherine answers, staring at him. He looks at her with both reverence and shock, fear and distant happiness. God works in mysterious ways, she wishes to say. Thank you, she conveys with her eyes. I don’t know how to thank you. 

Stafford looks away, as if unable to bear the heaviness of her gaze, the look in her eyes, the boy in her arms. Catherine does not blame him. 

“Give him to me, Catherine,” Henry says. “Give me my boy.” 

Catherine’s arms tighten around her child. She opens her mouth, then closes it. 

“Edward,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, before she can even think of the wisdom of her words. “I wish to name him Edward.” 

Henry’s gaze is kinder than it’s been in a long time. 

“Yes,” he says. “Edward, after my grandfather.” 

Catherine nods, as though in agreement. Let Henry believe what he wishes, for Catherine will know the truth. 

She spares a glance for the door as Henry takes her boy into his arms, and frowns, for Stafford has stepped back behind Wolsey and Charlie. She wants him back in her view, wants him to look at her, at what they managed—

But that is not fair of her, to expect such a thing. Catherine has long since managed to deal with her guilt. This will be my sin, and mine alone, Catherine had told him. She wonders if he is overwhelmed by guilt and regret or disgust and Catherine – 

She is more distressed than she cares to admit by the thought. 

ix. 

Mary watches her brother with fascination. She is his godmother, per Catherine’s insistence, and as she awaits them on the throne set up for her, clad in a deep blue gown in honour of her son’s christening, Catherine has never felt so proud. 

The bishop follows Mary as she walks up the stairs, Maggie beside her to assist in case she struggles with holding Edward. Edward, her own boy. Ned, as Mary has begun to call him. 

The bishop overtakes Mary, sprinkles holy water on Catherine and signals a cross above her. Catherine smiles as he moves away, beckons Mary over as the rest of court awaits to enter at the doorway. She carefully receives Ned’s from Mary’s arms, presses a kiss to Mary’s cheek. 

“He is heavy, Mama,” Mary complains quietly, moving to her side. “And he cried when they put him in the water.” 

“As did you,” Catherine chides softly, unable to keep from smiling. “And you did very well, my sweetheart.” 

Mary blushes then, stays by her side as members of the court come to give their congratulations to her and the child, as is the custom. 

Catherine gazes down at her son, at his delicate little features, and love swells in her chest. He is a good boy already; she can feel it in her bones. But still, she must acknowledge her subjects, so she forces herself to greet them, give her thanks as they compliment her and the child, congratulate them. 

Catherine will meet Henry at the great hall when they are done, and the celebrations, which have been occurring for the past fortnight, will continue now that she has out of her confinement. 

She has scarcely seen her husband since Ned’s birth, only when he has come to see their son. Catherine shoves that thought away. She is not sure what she was expecting from him, and she is not sure how she feels about his current reaction. 

“Your grace,” Stafford says, and Catherine is tugged right down to Earth. 

She watches his face closely, can scarcely look away from it. His son and Lady Ursula issue their congratulations. She thanks them vaguely, but she can’t decipher his expression. His eye flickers to the bundle in her arms, and for a moment something wavers in his expression, something so full of longing and heartache that it nearly tears her in two, but it is gone just as fast. 

“My sincerest congratulations upon the birth of Prince Edward,” he tells her. “Truly.” 

Catherine—oh, how she burns. With shame or guilt, she is not sure. She has her child, this beautiful babe she loves so greatly, and he—  
He must watch. 

“Thank you, Lord Edward,” she responds gently. “Thank you.” 

He offers her a strained smile and with one last look at the bundle in her arms, steps aside for the next courtier to approach. 

\--

It takes hours to finish with the courtiers and by the time they finish Mary is yawning, eager for a break. 

“It is just a short while longer,” she tells Mary, allowing Ned’s attendants to take him to change his swaddling before they present themselves before Henry. “You must have some food, and then you can rest.” 

Mary pouts, but otherwise remains quiet. 

It does not take long for Ned to be returned to her arms, and she smiles at him again, presses a kiss to his forehead. 

“Come, Mary,” she says, flashing her daughter a grin. “We must go and meet your father.” 

Catherine leads the court as they approach the great hall, and even from this distance Catherine can smell all the wine and sweet aromas from the foods. The servants know to remain out of these corridors and so they are strangely empty as Catherine walks her way to Henry. Distantly, she can hear church bells ringing. 

She holds her breath as the doors to the great hall swing open, and steps forward into the room, searching for Henry. She finds him standing by his throne, clad in his finest blue doublet, clad with his finest rubies and crown. His beard and hair are more groomed than she’s seen them in moons. 

“Catherine,” he greets, stepping toward her as she curtsies slightly, balancing Ned’s weight in her arms. “You have succeeded in your efforts.” He glances beside her. 

“Mary, you must serve your brother,” he tells her gravely. “For he is the heir.” 

He reaches out, pats her hair awkwardly. 

I have secured your future, Catherine thinks, watching as her daughter nods. Both of ours. 

Mary catches her eye, relaxes visibly. 

“My son,” Henry says, he takes Ned from her arms. His expression borders on possessive, as though he has stumbled onto a gold mine. “My heir.” 

He glances up at Catherine but says nothing. 

She watches him, waiting for—

Ned begins to wail in Henry’s arms. Her husband grimaces at the sound, but otherwise looks pleased. 

“Strong lungs,” he states approvingly. Henry speaks to the court then. 

“Meet your future King,” he declares. “Edward!” 

The court applauds loudly and Catherine thinks, for what may be the hundredth time, God truly is mysterious. 

\--

Ned and Mary are taken to their chambers long before it is acceptable for Catherine to do so. The wine pours freely and heavily, the smell permeating the room. There is at least six courses that compromise a splendid feast, and the musicians play all through the night. 

Catherine manages to eat well enough, watches her subjects eat and dance and converse amongst themselves. I can salvage it, she thinks. Ned has given us all hope, has abated Henry, softened him. He must have. 

“It is good,” Henry tells her suddenly. “That you have finally succeeded in your duty.” 

Catherine looks at him. 

“But we must have another,” Henry declares, as if they were discussing the weather. 

Catherine almost chokes on her wine. 

“Another?” she blurts out, unable to stop herself. “Ned is only a babe—” 

“And we must have another son to secure the throne,” Henry tells her. 

Catherine understands the sense of it. After all, Henry had been the second son, had never meant to be King until Arthur died. And they have experience with babe’s dying in the cradle. It makes sense and yet Catherine had never even thought to ponder on it. She had been so fixated on the notion of providing a son, of it securing her and Mary’s future, that it had never occurred to her that it wouldn’t be enough. 

“I—” she stops, uncommonly flustered. 

“Is that a problem?” Henry questions, popping a grape into his mouth. 

“Of course not,” Catherine snaps, uncaring of her tone. She ignores his gaze, looks down at her hands in her lap. 

Another son another son another son—

She wonders if anyone else has heard this conversation and the thought makes her sober up immediately and regain her composure. She glances up, finds Wolsey listening intently from his place nearby Henry. Her gaze follows down to find Stafford staring at her, almost frozen. 

Catherine is not sure she could bare birthing Henry a true Tudor son and then have—

Have one child steal the others right. 

But had she not done so with Mary? 

That was different. That was to secure Mary’s title as Princess, to make sure she was loved and happy, at least by her. To prevent her dying young, angry, bitter and unloved. Mary will still be a Queen—just not Queen of England. It is a sacrifice, but a necessary one. 

But to have another son, a Tudor son. . . Catherine is not sure she could do it. 

Unless…

Catherine shoves the thought away, tries to prevent it spreading in her mind. Stop, she tells herself harshly. Stop it. 

“Very well,” she agrees quietly. “We must have another.” 

x. 

The next day, Catherine hears from Maggie that Stafford has fallen ill. 

She has just finished feeding Ned and she is glad she set him back in his cot for Catherine is sure she would have dropped him from shock. 

“Ill?” she questions, uncomprehending—unwilling to believe such a thing. No, she thinks. She has just given birth to Ned all because of him. He cannot die now. He cannot. She will not allow it. 

“Yes,” Maggie says, unusually pale. “The doctors are unsure what the illness is. There is fever, sweat. He is apparently unconscious.” 

Catherine’s mouth feels dry beyond repair. 

“Is it the sweat?” she questions, rubbing at her throat. 

She gazes into the dwindling fire, unseeing. 

“No,” Maggie replies anxiously, holding a cloth in her hands. “Thank God.” 

“Yes,” Catherine murmurs. “Thank God.” 

But she is mad – so incredibly mad. If this were her punishment from God, a life for a life, Catherine cannot help but be angry. 

“Your grace, may I spend the day with my daughter and her husband?” Maggie asks. 

Catherine jumps a little. 

“Of course,” she replies instantly, thinking of Stafford’s heir. Her eyes drift to Ned, who is sound asleep. “I will pray for Stafford.” 

Maggie curtsies hurriedly. “Thank you, your grace.” 

And she leaves. 

Catherine buries her face in her hands the instant the door clicks shut behind her. 

Oh God, she thinks. Is this the price for my sin? For what I asked? 

“It’s my sin,” Catherine whispers. “I’m the one who asked him. I swore. I swore to him. Please don’t take him. Please.” 

It is not fair. Catherine does not regret her son for anything, but God cannot take Stafford because of Ned’s existence. 

Catherine calls on one of Ned’s attendants and flees to the chapel rosary in hand. 

For perhaps the thousandth time in months, Catherine kneels before the cross, rosary wrapped around fingers, and prays. 

“Take me,” she begs, eyes piercing with tears. 

She closes her eyes, inhales deeply. 

“You cannot take him,” she whispers, dragging her eyelids open to stare at the cross. “Please. It is not just. He—he—” 

She looks down, bites down on her lip to muffle her sobs. 

He did it for me, she thinks, shaking her head. For that was the truth. He risked his life, his family, his soul, just to help her. He asked for nothing in return, was only ever kind to her. He had shown her more devotion than anyone, except Lina. 

“No,” she says, standing suddenly. “No. He will get better. He must.” 

She stalks out of the chapel, skirts sweeping around her as she moves through the halls. She finds herself by the hall where she knows Stafford’s chambers are, spots Maggie comforting her daughter and son-in-law. 

“Maggie,” she calls out, smoothing out any wrinkles in her skirts. “How is Lord Stafford?” 

Her friend turns to her, expression surprised. 

“Your grace,” Maggie murmurs, blinking rapidly. “The physicians are still with him.” 

“You must have the court physicians attend him,” Catherine tells her, staring at the closed door. She has the strangest desire to tear it down with her bare hands. 

“I- thank you, your grace,” Maggie says eyeing her curiously. 

“Lord Stafford is a dear friend and a devoted servant,” Catherine explains. She glances at Lady Ursula and her husband Henry. “And he is good to his family.” 

She nods at Maggie once more and hurries away before the physicians exist the room. 

\--

Catherine spends the next few days praying. Her rosary never leaves her person, even if she hides it up her sleeves, wraps it around her wrist. She prays with Mary before her daughter goes to sleep and spends so much of her time staring at Ned, gazing at his plump little face. 

If Henry knows of Stafford’s condition, he does not care to mention it. 

Maggie spends less time with Catherine over the next week, giving short updates on Stafford’s recovery. Catherine sleeps little. The festivities for Ned die down after the third week, which she can scarcely enjoy.   
She spends time with her son and daughter, tries not to think on it, but she cannot. 

Catherine waits for what seems like forever until Maggie bursts into her chambers one day, declares loudly that Stafford’s fever has broken, that the physicians claim it was a sudden internal disease brought on by stress and sudden chill. 

Catherine’s heart sinks at the sound of it. He is to return to his estates to recover nicely, just like she had told him to do, and Catherine—

How can she let him go, without—

Without what? 

Catherine does not know. 

She waits a few days before she goes to see him. Luckily, it is only Lina who is there, so she shakes her off easily, ignores her curious stare as she takes Ned from his cradle and sweeps down the halls. 

The physicians are just leaving the rooms when she arrives. 

“Your grace,” the utter. “We were just leaving for an errand.” 

“Is Lord Stafford well?” she asks, staring at the closed door. 

“Quite well,” one responds. 

The other adds: “He has made a most remarkable recovery, your grace.” 

“I heard that he was to leave court, soon,” Catherine says, shifting Ned in her arms. “As he is a devoted subject, I wished to say farewell.” 

“Of course,” the physicians say simultaneously. “As you wish, your grace.” 

They bow and leave to set out on their errand. 

Her heart beats frantically as she stares at the door, and—

It feels like one of the hardest thing she has ever had to do. 

She glances down at Ned, at his sleep features, and something tugs at her heart. Catherine pushes the door open, lets it fall shut behind her. It stinks of sweat and ointment, and Catherine takes a moment to adjust to the darkened setting.   
She holds little Ned carefully in her arms. Stafford seems to blend into the sheets. There’s a cloth on top of his forehead, partially covering his ruined eye. If she were not holding Ned, she would have had difficulty—

Catherine shakes her head. It would do her no good to think of such things. 

Would it? A part of her whispers. Would it really? 

Ned begins to let out soft cries. 

“Shh,” Catherine murmurs, keeping a careful eye on Stafford. “Shh.” 

Her son’s cries grow louder, and Catherine moves him to her other side, presses a kiss on top of his head. 

“It’s alright,” she tells him. “You’re alright, sweet boy.” 

“Your grace?” Stafford asks, voice weak. 

Catherine looks at him suddenly. She had not noticed he had woken. 

“Catherine?” 

He blinks slowly, as if trying to wake himself from a dream. 

“Hello,” she says, suddenly nervous. “I—I came to see you.” 

Stafford continues to stare at her. 

“We came to see if you were alright,” she corrects. Ned has grown quiet, coos softly. 

Stafford manages to push himself up against the pillows with his hands. 

“Do not trouble yourself,” Catherine says, moving closer to his bed. 

“You should not have done so, your grace. Coming here—” 

“The physicians said it was an internal illness,” Catherine interrupts. “And you have been here for days, Lord Stafford.” 

“The physicians said.” 

Catherine opens her mouth, closes it. She knows not how to do this, how to speak with him suddenly, this man who had done so much for her. Ned rests his head on her shoulder. Catherine catches Stafford following the movement with his eye. 

“I was worried,” she says, approaching even closer to him. “To hear that you had fallen ill.” 

“The doctors say I have recovered well. They suggest I spend some time in the country.” 

“And you should listen to them.” 

“Your grace—” 

“Catherine,” she says. “When we are alone, you may call that, if you wish.” 

He’s silent for a moment. 

“Forgive me, your grace, but I am not sure that would do either of us any good. As you have said before.” 

Catherine bites down on her lip. 

“I know,” she admits, though something clenches in her stomach. Catherine glances back at the door. There are no noises outside. 

“Do you—do you want to hold him?” Catherine asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Your grace—” 

“It’s alright,” she cuts in. “The physicians have left on some errand of sorts.”   
A multitude of emotions appear on his face – yearning, happiness, and a deep sorrow. 

“Alright,” he says, opening up his arms. “Just once.” 

Catherine carefully transfers Ned into his arms, tries her best to ignore the pounding of her heart, the weight in her stomach. 

Ned settles into his embrace, rests his head on Stafford’s wide shoulder. He makes a small noise of pleasure as he buries into Stafford’s warmth. 

“He likes you,” Catherine says, throat tightening. 

She raises a hand to run down Ned’s back, lets it rest on Stafford’s forearm, where he is supporting Ned’s body.

“He is a fine weight,” Stafford says, closing his eye. He tilts his head, lets his cheek rest lightly on Ned’s scalp. 

“He is,” Catherine agrees. “A fine, healthy boy.” 

Catherine watches the two of them, absentmindedly caresses Stafford’s forearm. She withdraws her hand once she realises what she is doing. Something lurches in her stomach as she does it, something bitter and heavy that makes her want to cry. 

What can possibly be said, to soothe the wound in her soul? To soothe the ache in her body at the sight of the two together? 

Thank you, Catherine almost says, but that does not begin to encompass the gravity of her emotions, her feelings towards him. She has said it before, and she found it to be inadequate. 

Catherine jumps a little when she hears noises further down the hall and just like that the moment is broken. 

Stafford only appears to be understanding as she takes Ned back into her arms. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, standing. “I’m sorry.” 

Her gaze lingers on him. 

“Feel better, Stafford,” she tells him. “Truly. I—” she pauses, clutches Ned closer. 

“I could not bear it,” she whispers, turning away. “If something were to happen to you.”   
Immediately her insides begin to shake, and Catherine can’t—she can’t—

She leaves, like a coward. 

\--

Catherine attends a council meeting the next day. Henry does not object to her presence, even smiles at her. 

Wolsey is not there, thankfully, so the meeting passes by relatively quietly as they talk of trade of Portugal. She listens carefully, tries to reorient herself on the recent events that have occurred around the world. It strikes her then, how much she has sheltered herself from the goings on not only within her own country, but the whole world. 

She tries not to stare at Stafford’s empty chair. 

The meeting soon ends, but Henry calls her back as the others leave.   
“It is good to have you returned to court properly,” Henry tells her. He watches her closely, as if expecting her to become overcome with emotion. 

“Thank you, Henry,” she responds, fiddling with her rosary. 

“I’ve noticed you carry a rosary around quite a lot recently.” 

“It’s helped me, these past few moons,” Catherine replies. 

“I shall have another one commissioned for you,” Henry tells her, moving closer. 

Catherine watches him warily, remembering the bruises, the yelling. We must have another, he had said. She almost flinches. 

“That is most kind of you,” she says, their chests almost brushing. 

Henry moves to kiss her as the words barely leave her mouth and Catherine cannot help but stiffen. He notices, pulls away with a frown. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

Catherine almost laughs at him. 

You threatened my life, she wishes to scream. You threatened Mary. You have forsaken every vow you made me, and you dare ask what is it wrong? 

But she cannot even blame him for it, can she? She had been so desperate to regain his love, his affection, that he must have assumed that when he felt like doing so, she would accept it without question, like some kind of dog. 

Catherine feels ill, looking at him. Bessie, Mary Boleyn and so much else stands between them. It is as though a massive ocean has spung up and Catherine has no desire to swim across it when she knows he will not do the same for her. 

He sighs, wipes a hand over his face. Catherine expects his anger, his derision. 

“Henry,” she starts, and stops. “I am tired.” 

He looks at her then, somehow seems to see right through her. 

“If you had given me a son earlier,” Henry tells her. “This would not have happened.” 

“Love,” Catherine replies, almost instantly. “Is not conditional, Henry.” 

For a moment, he looks as though she slapped him. 

Catherine has long since struggled with what to do with all the love she has for Henry. For years, even before their marriage, it had driven her, kept her warm and alight. Recently, her love for Henry seemed as though it were put in a cage. As though it were a living, breathing body banging on the walls to break free, to see the light. 

Catherine inhales, searches inside for the familiar pain, the tension in her chest that threatened to rip her in two. It’s still there – a part of Catherine believes it always will be, but it is not as painful or loud as it had been before. Time, Catherine thinks, can truly heal all wounds. 

Henry opens his mouth, closes it abruptly. He seems unable to decide if he wants to scream at her or leave, so Catherine makes the decision for them both. 

“I shall leave you, husband,” Catherine says. She manages to conjure up a small smile for him and leaves without another word. 

The moment the door closes behind her, Catherine exhales loudly. She will always love Henry, in some way. But she does not need his love anymore, is no longer consumed by his very presence. Catherine does not live simply to serve him, like she had before. 

It is the freest she has felt in a long time. 

Catherine walks through the corridors, lets out a short laugh. She seems to be walking somewhere unconsciously, lets her feet guide her. 

She pushes open the door to the front of the palace and—

“Stafford,” she calls out, approaching him. A few of his men loiter nearby, preparing his belongings. He turns to look at her, visibly surprised. 

“Your grace,” he greets. 

Catherine suddenly remembers how he had come to say farewell when she had left for Eltham with Mary. 

“You are leaving,” she states. “I heard from Henry.” 

“Indeed, your grace,” he replies, avoiding her gaze. 

I could not bear it if anything happened to you, she had told him. 

Catherine is only now beginning to realize how much she means it. Maybe, she thinks, staring at him, maybe I knew for longer than I wished to admit. Maybe even from that day in his cell when she’d realized he wanted her. Desired her. 

She feels almost drunk, staring at him. She feels alive. 

“Stafford,” she says. Her hand tightens by her side as she resists the urge to reach for him. “I will miss you,” she breathes.

He stares at her then, meets her gaze with a weariness she cannot blame him for. 

“I will miss the court as well,” he returns. 

She wonders if she will lose him now, after everything. If now that she has finally let Henry go she will lose one of the few people who had believed in her through it all. Had stood by her, been kind. 

“Come back,” she tells him, careful to ensure that no one can overhear. Even she hears the desperation in her voice. “Please.” 

I could do this without you if I desired, she wishes to tell him. But I do not want to. You have been my ally, my friend, a protector. I want you by my side. 

He seems to consider her words carefully. 

“For you, my queen,” he answers finally. “I will return.” 

Catherine smiles, wide and beaming, and for perhaps for the first time since she came to England she truly feels like the light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry this took so long! But it's done. I finished it. Finally. I loved this work and was frustrated by it in equal measure. Life, work, writer's block and school got in the way. I'm not entirely happy with this final chapter - some parts are pretty rushed, especially towards the end, but I hope people can still enjoy it. Let me know what you think. Also, all of your support on this story has been incredible, and I am so grateful. Thanks again guys! Enjoy. 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073

i.

Catherine settles back against her wooden throne, tugs her furs closer around her thin frame. Winter has begun, but that did not stop Henry from throwing another jousting tournament in Ned’s honour. Thankfully, her son is nestled safely inside, as is Mary, who Catherine had allowed to stay outside only for a while before ushering her inside the castle, sighting fear of her daughter catching a cold. 

She glances at Henry, finds him throwing back yet another cup of wine. 

Another son, he had said. We must have another. 

Catherine feels the air in her lungs tug uncomfortably at the memory. Fortunately, the physicians had more or less forbidden any marital relations for at least another moon. Until then, she is safe from Henry’s visits to her bed- she still has time to think on the matter. 

But what is there to think of? 

Her mind flashes to Stafford, who has been gone only a fortnight, back at his estates to recover from his illness. He said he would return, and Catherine believes him, but when? And—

I will never ask anything of you again, Catherine had told him, when she had first asked him for Ned. She had meant it then, and now that she thinks more on it, she still does. She cannot risk his life again – and her own. She remembers how he looked, laying there in his bed, ill and feverish, and the mere thought makes her heart clench. 

Henry Stafford has just defeated George Boleyn in a joust, and Catherine jolts back to reality at the sound, applauding loudly. He turns to look at her and Henry, lifting open his visor to smile at them. He looks so like Stafford that for a moment Catherine cannot help but ponder – and fear – that Ned will look like him. 

Her son will never know this boy as anything more than a subject. 

“Brava,” her husband claps, before beckoning the servant over for more drink. That is his fourth cup in her presence. 

Catherine follows him in his praise, allows Stafford’s son to kiss her hand when he approaches them. 

“Why,” Henry comments, after the winning knight pulls away. “I do think I shall joust today as well.” A servant comes and takes the wine cup from his awaiting hand. 

Catherine looks at him with poorly concealed horror. Joust? She thinks. 

“Your majesty,” she says, before she can quite stop herself. 

He turns, looks at her with narrowed eyes. 

“Catherine,” he returns, as if the very sound of her voice displeased him. 

She falters for a moment. 

“Are you prepared to joust, your majesty?” she asks carefully. 

Her tone seems to please him. 

“Yes,” he replies. “Quite ready.” 

He moves towards her, presses a wet kiss to her cheek. 

“For luck,” he declares, moving with his manservant to put on his armour. 

Catherine watches him go, glances to find Henry Stafford standing there with a wary, if not fearful expression. 

“You must go and prepare,” she tells the boy. He nods, stricken, and returns to his horse. 

Catherine sits back down, burrows into her furs. Henry’s recklessness would one day get him killed, if he carried on like this. Her husband believes himself infallible, untouchable, blessed. But all King’s die, many in battle. They are still made of flesh and bone, same as any man or woman. 

Catherine tries to ease the undercurrent of danger thrumming in her stomach but finds that she cannot relax until Henry has safely jousted against Stafford’s son, victorious, and returns to the throne beside her, almost wobbling on his feet. 

She had thought a son would bring some measure of peace, stability. She does not know how to proceed with the growing realization that that is not true. 

-

As soon as she gets the chance, Catherine leaves for Ned’s chambers. She will visit Mary before bed, as is her custom, but—

Catherine remembers the babe she had lost, her own dear Henry, who had been fine one moment and--  
She can scarcely think of it even now – cannot even bare to imagine Ned meeting the same fate, cold and lifeless. She pushes open the doors to her son’s nursery, finds Lina sitting in a chair by the fireplace, her son safe in his cot. 

Lina rises and smiles at the sight of Catherine. 

“Highness,” her friend greets, voice quiet. “How were the festivities?” 

“They were entertaining,” Catherine replies, mind flashing to Henry and his impulsive joust. 

She moves to the cradle, eager to see her son, to see his chest rising and falling faithfully. He is fast asleep as she looks over him. By God, he is only a month old and she feels he has grown so much already. 

“He is a beautiful boy,” Lina whispers, standing by her side. 

Catherine’s gaze lingers on his delicate features, on his small, innocent face, and her heart swells. 

“Yes,” Catherine replies faintly. “He is.” 

She can’t help but lift her hand and rest it lightly on his chest, just to feel the warmth of his body, to feel his heart working so furiously, showing that he is alive, he is strong. 

“Sometimes,” Catherine begins, before she can quite stop. “Sometimes I feel as though if I stop looking at him for even a moment he will die.” She chokes on the word. “As though the strength of my gaze will keep him here with me, keep him alive.” 

“Catherine,” Lina murmurs, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He is a strong, healthy boy.” 

“I know,” Catherine murmurs, drawing away her hand. “I know I should not think it, but I cannot stop myself. I’ve lost so many sons, Lina. So many.” 

Catherine does not need to look at her friend to know she is at a loss, so she merely places a hand on top of Lina’s squeezes it gratefully. She cannot tell her that the reason she is so fearful is that God may punish her for her sin; that He may have given her this beautiful, precious boy only to rip him away so she could be punished all the more greatly. An eye for an eye, she thinks, rubbing her throat. 

Perhaps a more careful woman would have been wary to love them. After all, children die so often in the crib and in the early years, many mothers are hesitant and wary. Catherine had been the same with Mary, but she loves her children too much, is too grateful that they are here, that they are alive, to be cautious with them. 

It is a fault of hers, to be sure, but it is one of the ones she is least sorry for. 

Ned wakes as she pulls away, cries softly, and Catherine instantly reaches for him, carries him in her arms. 

“Shh, my sweet boy,” she whispers, kissing his head as she rocks him. “Shh.” 

I will protect you, she swears. I will. 

-

The court seems to embrace her return to court. Catherine is grateful now that the whispers that had clung to her before and he pitiful gazes seem to have dropped dramatically. Or maybe she no longer cares, anymore, if the court whispers about Henry’s various mistresses. 

She wonders suddenly as to what has happened to Henry Fitzroy and Bessie Blount. She has not heard any mention of them. In fact, the boy was not even at Ned’s christening, though they were brothers. Though Henry had recognized him, had paraded him throughout court for all to see, regardless of Catherine’s own feelings of the matter. He had done it to parade around her failure. 

Now that she had given him a son, a true heir to throne, the other boy was of no consequence. 

Catherine, for various reasons, both obvious and unknown, is discomforted by this. 

She had been unkind to Bessie. Jealous, paranoid, vengeful, bitter. Henry’s adultery had made her hollow, had made her burn and cry. Catherine may not even like the woman now, but she remembers all too well Bessie’s cries when Catherine had ripped her boy from her arms and taken him to Henry, before Bessie could even hold the babe herself. 

From where she sits beside Henry in the council room, Catherine shifts uncomfortably. She had the power to prevent the midwife from doing the same to her, but Bessie had not. 

But what could Catherine do for Henry Fitzroy now? 

In truth, she was not even sure that there was something that could be done. 

She glances at her husband, finds him watching Wolsey drone on and on about the Scottish borders, about relations between Meg and the husband she was so desperately trying to get rid of. She recalls now her own fear that Henry would do the same to her. 

But he cannot, she thinks. Ned has secured yours and Mary’s position. 

It is difficult to think of her son in such logical terms, but it is true, nonetheless.   
“My sister is mad to think that the Pope will grant an annulment,” Henry declares. 

Ah. Meg. Yet another person Catherine has to mend relations with. 

“Be that as it may, your majesty,” Thomas Boleyn inserts. “It may be best if we keep your disapproval quiet so that your sister may regain her position as regent over those pesky Scots, who have once again been raiding the Northern borders.” 

Have they forgotten Flodden? Stafford had said, when they first heard of the Scottish attacks all those moons ago. Catherine almost smiles at the memory. 

“There is sense in what Sir Thomas is saying, Henry,” Catherine tells him. “We may not give our approval on the matter, but there is no need for us to declare any other position either. Neutrality may be our best course in this matter.” 

Thomas Boleyn nods in agreement, as do a few others. 

“After all,” Catherine continues. “Meg is the one who also has England’s interests at heart.”

“If she had wanted to keep her position, Madame, Meg should not have married the bloody man in the first place,” Henry sneers. “Wolsey, write that there is no circumstance in which she will have her inheritance if she continues on this course.” 

Henry stands, barely spares Catherine a second glance. 

“I have other matters to attend to,” he declares, before leaving the room. 

Wolsey does not follow him out. 

Catherine has always known that Henry had little patience for certain things. Often enough, when it came to things such as taxes or other state matters, he tended to leave it in the hands of his council in order to pursue other matters. He was not like his father, who counted every penny, who was in charge of every matter of state. Catherine had understood his impatience. After all, her husband was an avid hunter, an athlete, a scholar, a lover. Catherine had loved him for it. 

Now, she is not sure what he does in his time. During her leave from court and her subsequent confinement, Wolsey’s influence and power seems to have increased. Before, she shied away from it to protect the child in her womb.

Catherine must look this in the face and try—

Try what? She thinks, stroking her chin. 

She must help protect her people and lessen the corruption that surrounds the court. She must try and rebuild the prosperity they had had in the early years of her reign. 

But how was she to do it? 

Wolsey was everywhere. He had spies even amongst her ladies. She was safe with very few people in this world. And Henry—

She thought that if she had Ned, she would regain some favour. But Henry’s greed knew no ends. One son was not enough for him. Catherine is starting to think that ten sons will not be enough to satisfy his paranoia. 

She must try and regain Henry’s favour in some other way. But how? 

Catherine lifts her gaze, stares at Wolsey’s back from where he converses with Thomas More. 

There must be a way to level the playing field. There must. 

ii. 

The Christmas festivities begin a week after the joust. With Ned’s arrival, they are more lavish than they have been in years. Catherine orders new clothing for her son, as well as some various toys he can use as he grows older. He is too young, of course, to remember such things, but she wishes to spoil him all the same while he is young. 

For Mary, she designs a small, silver, intricate diadem with a large sapphire in the middle, as well as various books, silks and toys. This will be a memorable Christmas. Catherine has much to atone for in that regard. She also turns six and thirty during those weeks. 

Her sister-in-law Mary is still at her estates to prepare for the birth of her babe. She is six moons along now, near her confinement, and had written to Catherine enthusiastically to congratulate her on the birth of the babe, as had the rest of Europe. 

Stafford is still at his estates. 

He had sent Henry a new hawk for a gift, as well as other expensive trinkets. For Catherine, he had sent a ring. The band was bejewelled with rubies, and the center saw diamonds placed in the shape of a C. He had sent another chest of presents for Mary and Ned.

The musicians are playing jolly music in the great hall as the court delivers their gifts to the King and Queen. Mary sits in a chair by her side, with Ned in her arms. They are the happy family, apparently, with a son and heir. Luckily, her son is a relatively quiet babe, so he is mostly restful as the music plays and the courtiers offer them their best wishes. 

“Nous sommes une famille,” Henry declares to the French ambassador. 

Catherine watches the interaction with mild distaste she is careful to hide. Her nephew Charles had written to them both to congratulate them on the birth of a son, had even taken care to mention Mary, and how he wished her well. But he is older than her. At least sixteen years of age. If he breaks off the engagement so he can have an heir earlier, the Dauphin would be the next choice. 

But the King had humiliated her and besmirched her name. Catherine does not want Mary to wed such a wretched man’s progeny. She will not allow it. 

Charles may be constant in his promises now, but if he does not wed Mary, then who else is there? 

At once, the thought pops into her head. Meg! The King of Scots is no small prize and would keep them out of the French faction. But that could only be under a specific set of circumstances, and it is not as if Henry would ever agree. 

Her husband is cordial enough to Catherine now, though he is still inclined to ignore her existence. 

Catherine can only look on later, after the children have been sent to bed, as he leaves his spot beside her to chase after Mary Boleyn. She watches him tuck one of her curls behind her ear and laugh as she blushes under his attentions.

Catherine does not know her former lady in waiting well enough to tell if she is truly flattered by Henry’s intentions or if she is just putting on a farce. Bessie had seemed enamoured with Henry. But what other choice did either of them have? 

Was it possible for a lady to refuse a King and still expect her family to be secure? For herself to be secure? 

Catherine sits there, troubled. 

“Your grace,” Wolsey greets, bowing before he approaches her side. Catherine resists the urge to tense, fixates her gaze on the courtiers dancing. 

“Cardinal,” she returns, smoothing the lines on her lap. 

“The festivities have been quite splendid this year, have they not?” he poses. 

“Indeed,” she agrees. Catherine suddenly remembers the conversation they had before which was eerily similar to this, before she had left for Eltham Palace. 

“The King seems to be enjoying himself,” he comments. 

Catherine looks at him then. His expression is the epitome of condescending and Catherine realises that he believes she is upset by Henry’s affair, heartbroken, even. She almost laughs. She does not enjoy the public scrutiny and pitiful glances to be sure, but she no longer needs Henry’s love anymore. Love is not conditional, Henry, she had said, and meant it. 

Catherine opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. 

Everyone thinks she still loves Henry. That she needs his approval, his affection, his love. She needs his ear, that is for certain, but her actions over the past few years have outlined this role for her. It is an expected one. Henry expects the same from her as well and with that Catherine realises, she has made a grave error. 

She glances at Henry and Mary Boleyn. She had flattered his affections, protected his feelings of importance and grandeur. Catherine had rejected Henry, had let him see her distance from him emotionally. He enjoyed granting her affection whenever he pleased; to find that she was waiting for him like some dog. 

The thought of returning to that paranoid, hurt state makes her grit her teeth but there is some sense in it. If she is to regain Henry’s ear and regain some influence around court, she needs to flatter him, praise him, catch his interest. 

But he has no passion for her anymore. No love. They are no longer those youthful lovers who had met in the forest, who had kissed and made declarations of eternal passion. Catherine’s child bearing years will be over in a few years, and God knows she is not as beautiful as she used to be. Isolation and heartbreak have hollowed and thinned her features. 

You are beautiful, Catherine, Stafford had said. 

It is a flattering statement, to be sure. Catherine had believed him – believes him still, but she cannot rely on his praise to entice her husband into bed or believe in her own value. She cannot. 

“I have enjoyed myself too, Cardinal Wolsey,” she replies, flashing him a cool smile. 

He nods, jaw working. 

Sitting here by herself, solemn, as though she were ancient, incapable of laughter or love or dancing, will not help her. Catherine must play her role, yes, but she must also adapt and entice. She thinks of Henry taking her to bed, and something inside her stomach clenches uncontrollably. 

When Catherine catches sight of Maggie talking to her daughter and son in law, she turns to Wolsey. 

“If you will excuse me,” she murmurs, before rising. People curtsy as she walks past them. 

“Lady Pole,” she greets, watching as Maggie, Lady Ursula and Henry Stafford bow at her presence. 

“Your grace,” Maggie returns, smiling. 

“I hope you all are enjoying yourselves.” 

“The festivities are most delightful, your grace,” Lady Ursula says rather eagerly. 

Catherine looks at her, then at her husband. She misses Stafford with a sudden ache. 

“How is your father?” she questions politely. 

Henry Stafford remains smiling. 

“He is well, your grace,” he replies. “The physicians say he has recovered entirely from the sudden illness, but that some more time in the country will be good for his constitution.” 

“That is good to hear,” she murmurs, some of the tension in her chest ebbing. 

They converse together quietly, before Henry Stafford asks Catherine to dance. With a smile, she accepts, and she tries to ignore everyone’s curious glances as the move through the steps. It is a lively, country dance with jumps and turns and Catherine cannot help but laugh as they move down the hall and twirl. She feels lighter, happier. Catherine may not be the youthful Queen she once was, but she is still young, can still be happy. 

She has a son and a daughter, so much to be thankful for. 

When the dance ends, she smiles gratefully when Henry Stafford bows. She misses his father with a sudden ache that surprises her. She turns her head, finds Henry staring at her, his attention diverted from Mary Boleyn. 

Something in her heart sinks. She wanted this, yes. She needs to have some sort of influence over Henry, flatter him, keep his favour. But then why does she suddenly wish to run away? To hide from his gaze? 

She has no choice.

Catherine walks to the side of the dancers, watches and claps with false delight as the move. She almost startles when someone slides next to her, and without even looking she knows it is Henry. 

“Catherine,” he murmurs. 

“Your majesty,” she replies. 

You are beautiful, Catherine. 

She looks away from Henry. 

“I will come to your bed tonight,” he says. 

His eyes have darkened considerably from when she saw him last. 

“I will go and prepare for you then, Henry,” she replies, flashing him a small smile. 

She watches him walk away with something very akin to nervousness. 

\--

Catherine does prepare for him. She changes out of her dress to a plain white shift, takes out her jewellery and waits on her bed after dismissing her ladies. 

She tries not to think of the last time she had a man in her bed, but she cannot banish the thoughts from her mind. She remembers the panic, the danger, the unease. The desperate need to separate herself from the situation for the sake of her heart and soul. 

There was once a time where Catherine wanted Henry’s attention more than anything – his love, his affection, all of it. To lose it made her lose herself. But now, how is she to do this? A part of Catherine may always love Henry, but she doesn’t want him anymore. 

She wants—

Catherine is not even entirely sure what she desires. 

Come back, she had said. Please. 

She jumps when the door to her bedchamber opens, revealing Henry in a long robe and his nightclothes. The candle on her nightside table illuminates their faces in a soft, golden glow. 

“Henry,” she greets, forcing a smile on her lips. 

She suddenly feels tired, as though she’s aged a thousand years. 

He merely walks towards her, places a calloused hand on her cheek, paws at it roughly. Stafford’s hands had been soft. 

Catherine lowers her eyes. She knows not whether God will give her another child. If it is a son, from Henry’s seed, Catherine knows not what she would do. Denying Mary her birthright was a necessity, a means to guarantee her future. If there was a son. . .

Henry moves between her thighs, urges to her to move backward. 

Catherine lies back. She remembers the day when she would kiss his neck, clutch him closer, deeper. Be vocal with him. Gone is that closeness. Henry pushes inside her, and Catherine feels removed from her body, as though she were hovering on a cloud.

As her husband hovers above her, grunting, pushing, Catherine feels entirely empty. But she must put on an act, must she not. Henry must be satisfied. She cups his cheeks, then moves her hands to his shoulders. 

“Henry,” she gasps quietly, trying to appear in the throes of pleasure. 

He lets out a quiet moan, working between her legs, and Catherine struggles not to stiffen. He is close, she recognizes the sounds now. He finishes a few thrusts later, pulls out of her and falls to the side with a loud huff. 

Catherine lays there quietly, and her eyes prick with tears. 

She remembers the soft, tender kiss Stafford had pressed on her forehead all those moons ago. She recalls his kindness towards her, the gentleness. 

Henry rolls out of the bed. 

“Goodnight,” he grunts, before leaving the room. 

Catherine exhales loudly. 

For you, my queen, I shall return. 

Catherine closes her eyes, and dreams of sleep. 

iii. 

The new year passes and Henry, thankfully, has not visited her bed again. Catherine had been attentive towards him, if distant. She attends the council meetings, advises him, keeps quiet when she needs to, and still he is indifferent towards her, regardless of the birth of a son. 

If she needed any more confirmation of his inconsistency, he has given her plentiful. 

And Catherine is not merely referring to herself. 

One day, after visiting Mary during her lessons to hear her progress with French, Catherine walks the halls of Westminster alone. She’s about to turn the corner when she hears whispers. 

“The King has forsaken her,” a lady says, her voice relatively high pitched. 

Catherine rolls her eyes, sure that they are speaking about her, but then she catches sight of Mary Boleyn and her younger sister, Anne. 

“The great whore,” another courtier whispers, unaware of Catherine’s presence. 

She watches as the Lady Anne presses a comforting hand on her sister’s back. The courtier who joined the one who made the remark laughs, and Catherine notices Lady Anne grit her teeth, her nostrils flaring. 

The great whore, she thinks impassively. She had screamed that very insult at Bessie Blount more times than she could count in her head. She had raged against her and Bessie’s son, her jealousy consuming every fiber of her body. Now, she feels next to nothing. 

Catherine does want to wipe that smug face off the two female courtiers, so she rounds the corner, delights in how they freeze and sink into a deep curtsy. 

“Ladies,” she utters, directing her gaze to the Boleyn sisters. 

Mary still appears to be rather flustered, and Catherine wonders if there is any chance the girl may be carrying Henry’s child. She manages to straighten her posture when she realises Catherine is there, shaking off her sister’s touch. 

“Your grace,” Mary Boleyn murmurs, curtsying. 

Catherine is reminded all too much of Bessie. Of how fearful she looked; her eyes filled with tears when her family disowned her. Henry had promised her security and more and would have forsaken the vow if she had not given him a son – or if Catherine had not intervened. 

What did my husband promise you? She almost asks. But her former Lady appears rather fragile to Catherine’s eyes, as if she’s been stripped bare for all prying eyes to see, which, in a way, she has. Catherine finds Thomas Boleyn to be a decent man, clever and careful of his interests and his family. She does not think he would forsake his daughter because the King bedded her, but then again, she has judged male characters wrong before. 

“Are you well?” she asks instead, eyeing the girl closely. 

Lady Mary looks startled. 

“I am well, your grace,” the other woman replies. 

Catherine glances at the other Boleyn girl and is surprised by the anger in her eyes, the fierceness in them. It takes her a moment to realize that the anger is not directed at herself in particular, merely at those women, at the court. At Henry. 

“If you need a physician, Lady Mary,” Catherine murmurs. “You need only ask.” 

She nods at them and walks away. 

-

Though the court’s mood has yet to improve, the world around them seems to have calmed. With Ned’s birth, England has become secure and desirable in the eyes of the Europe. 

That is all well and good, but Catherine spends a great deal of her time trying to forget the words another son another son another son. 

She writes to Meg instead. 

It has been a long time coming, but she still struggles with the words regardless. 

I am sorry, she writes. For all of it. I am still trying to find the woman I once was when I came to England. I want to be someone she would be proud of. 

We have set our destinies in the stars, and now we must fight for it, no matter the cost. We do it for our countries, our Kingdoms, and most importantly, our children. 

I wish to be sisters once again, Meg. I hope you will let me. 

She sends the letter off with a nervous heart and spends the rest of the day with Mary and her own Ned, trying to regain her composure, her surety of self. 

The only time she ever feels truly alive is with her children. That has not changed. They both grow and grow and she delights in it. 

There is little Catherine does have control over, especially when it comes to Henry, whose favour is as fleeting and inconsistent as the wind, and so Catherine delves into charity and good works. 

She goes to orphanages with Lina and Maggie, donates money and religious works to the people. Henry may not love her, but the people always have, and so she cultivates their affection, which has been renewed tenfold by the birth of her son. 

She can’t help but think, rather smugly, that the crowds applaud and cheer her far more than they do Henry, or Wolsey, or any other man. 

Catherine listens to court gossip, when she can, and it is through staying silent and listening that she learns of the situation with Anne Boleyn. Well, that is not quite true, she first learns that there is tension between Thomas Boleyn and Wolsey in a council meeting, where the Cardinal makes a comment about women trying to marry above their station. 

If Catherine had not been paying attention, she would have entirely missed the sudden look of fury that appeared on Thomas Boleyn’s face, with the rest of the council’s expression turning just as tense. Henry, as always, appears indifferent. 

Later, after the meeting is over, Catherine returns to Ned’s nursery, finds Lina already there, taking care of them. She is glad to see her friend there. 

“Lina,” she greets. She approaches her friend, lets her put her son in her arms. Catherine settles down in the rocking chair by his cradle. 

“Catherine,” Lina returns, smiling at her. 

“How is your family?” Catherine questions, staring down at her sleeping boy. 

“They are well, Catalina, thank you.” 

Catherine hums in acknowledgement, is careful to keep her voice low before she proceeds. 

“Lina,” she begins. “I have been remiss in my duties, it would seem.” 

“Catherine?” 

“I… have you heard rumours about the Lady Boleyn?” 

Lina looks taken aback. 

“I heard that—I heard that there has been issues with the Boleyns and with Wolsey,” Catherine says finally.   
“Ah,” Lina murmurs. And thankfully, without Catherine having to clarify herself more, Lina knows what she means and proceeds. 

“There have been issues, your grace. It has been rumoured that the Lady Anne and the Earl of Northumberland’s heir, Henry Percy, tried to elope.” 

“I thought Lady Anne was betrothed to her cousin, James Butler?” Catherine remembers Thomas Boleyn announcing it. 

“She is. And Henry Percy is pre-contracted with Lady Mary Talbot and—” 

“James Butler is a page in Wolsey’s household, and Henry Percy has to secure the King’s permission to wed.” 

It all made sense now. 

“The Northumberland earldom is incredibly important,” Catherine murmurs, recalling Wolsey’s snide comment. “Thomas Boleyn is an essential statesman, but Lady Anne is not the most advantageous of brides.” 

There was something on the edge of her tongue, something she couldn’t quite grasp. Ned let out a little gasp. 

“Oh, it’s okay,” she coos, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Mama is here, little love.” 

“He looks like you,” Lina tells her. 

Catherine feels a lump settle in her throat. 

“He does,” she agrees, her eyes growing a little wet. 

“I think he will be like you,” Lina says.

Catherine glances at her, finds her friend’s eyes full of love. 

“Kind and brave and strong.” 

A small laugh escapes her lips. 

“Maybe,” she replies. These words almost escape her lips: I want him to have all of his father. 

But she can’t say that, can she? 

As long as Henry does not corrupt her boy or her daughter, Catherine does not care.   
-

Coincidentally enough, that very night, Catherine goes for a stroll through the gardens to admire the sunset. It’s a cold day, but nothing too overwhelming, so Catherine keeps her layers of furs to the minimum. 

The sky is painted a brilliant orange as the sun begins to set, and Catherine takes the opportunity to breathe in the fresh air, away from everyone, away—

“I cannot,” she hears a voice from a short distance. 

Catherine creeps around one of the hedges, careful to keep her footsteps light. 

“So you no longer love me,” a familiar voice whispers. 

Catherine knows who it is. 

“You know I do, Anne,” the male replies – most probably Henry Percy himself. 

“Is it your father, Wolsey—” Lady Anne stops. “It’s Wolsey, is it not? He has interfered—” 

“He rules this country, Annie,” he interrupts. “You know it, as does everyone. He is untouchable, and we all must satisfy the King. One whisper from Wolsey and anyone could be destroyed. Anyone.” 

Catherine tries to ignore how her insides bristle at his words, but however much she may like to deny it, she knows it to be true. After all, Wolsey almost led Stafford to his ruin. It was only quick acting that got Henry to change his mind. 

“We can leave here,” Lady Anne says. “Wolsey will not always be in power—"

“I’m sorry,” the man says helplessly. “I will love you until I take my very last breath.” 

Catherine shies back behind the hedge, presses herself as much as she can against it as he walks in the space, thankful only that he does not notice her. 

There’s silence behind the other hedge for a few moments, until Catherine hears faint sounds that almost sound like hiccups and knows for certain that her former lady is weeping. 

Catherine takes her leave then, eager to give the other woman her privacy. She was moved by their plight, but what could she do? She had not yet gained Henry’s favour from Wolsey, and she was still unsure on how to do it. One provocation and Henry could send the children away, or send her away, or imprison her, or—

As she walks, Catherine thinks and thinks and thinks. 

iv. 

Spring brings warm weather back to Westminster. The flowers begin to bloom as the snows melt, the grass growing green. Spring brings all of this, but it also brings Stafford. 

She takes Mary and Ned out for a picnic in the gardens while Henry hunts. It’s a lovely sunny day, and Catherine relishes it, for it reminds her of Spain, whose weather she still misses. Judging by the expression on Lina’s face, her friend does as well. 

Mary has grown so much – Ned too, over these past few months. They eat cheese and fruit, and Catherine watches as Mary runs from flower to flower, keeping a careful eye on Ned, who is balanced on her lap. 

Catharine pops a grape into her mouth, chews on the sweet fruit when Mary beckons her over. With a small laugh, she stands, balancing Ned on her hip as she walks over to her daughter. 

“For you, Mama,” Mary says, plucking a flower from the bush. 

Catherine warns her about potential thorns, but her daughter’s hands remain unscathed as she offers her the pink rose. 

Catherine bends down a little, careful to keep on supporting Ned, and lets her slide the flower behind her ear. 

“Thank you very much,” Catherine says, smiling wildly. “Does it suit me, Mary?” 

Her daughter giggles, and Catherine can’t help but laugh back. 

“Lady Maggie!” Mary exclaims, moving in front of Catherine. She turns to follow her daughter, finds her friend approaching them along with—

“Stafford,” Catherine gasps, startling forward. 

The flower becomes lopsided from its place on her ear, but Catherine pays it no attention. They’re still a small distance away, but it’s him. She would recognize him anywhere now. 

She shifts Ned to her other side, unwilling to summon one of the nursemaids to hold him. No, she wants him to be in her arms when Stafford sees her, when he returns to—

Catherine is suddenly nervous, unsure. He’s been gone for nigh on five moons now. Anything could have happened. But she can’t show that, and so Catherine tries to rearrange her features into what she hopes is a neutral expression. 

“Your grace,” Maggie greets, a warm smile spread on her lips. She looks happy, as always does whenever her family is near, whenever her family is safe. Catherine understands the feeling. 

“Maggie,” Catherine returns, before her eyes dart to the man standing behind her. 

He looks well, and her heart almost bursts at the sight of it. She remembers all too well the sight of him on his sickbed, pale and sweaty. Seeing him now before her, healthy and strong, is something she did not know she needed until it had happened. 

“Lord Stafford,” she says, a lump stuck in her throat. “I see you have returned to court.” 

His face is carefully masked as he responds. “Indeed, your grace. The physicians recommended I remain in the countryside for winter, but now I feel fit to return to my duties.” 

“Of course,” she replies quickly. “You must do whatever is best for your health.” 

His eye moves to Ned in her arms and Catherine is bombarded with the memory of her son laying on his chest, his little face nestled into the crook of his neck. 

“Lady Maggie,” Mary says suddenly, running up to her governess. “Please come and see the flowers with me!” 

Catherine laughs at that, along with Maggie, and with a quick nod of approval her daughter and Maggie leave to explore the budding flowers. 

“He’s grown,” Stafford comments, causing her to look at him. 

Catherine shifts Ned in her arms. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “He has.” 

You came back, she thinks. I missed you. 

“You look radiant your grace,” he tells her. 

Catherine almost laughs. 

“It is the bloom of spring, my lord, nothing more.” 

“You have everything you could desire, your grace. You are content.” 

“I am now.” 

The reply slips from her unbidden, unwelcome, dangerous, but true, nonetheless. Catherine glances around, grateful that no one is standing close enough to hear. With a small flick of her hand, she gestures for one of the lady’s maids to come and take Ned. With a soft kiss to her son’s head, Catherine passes him into the lady’s arms. 

When she finally looks back at Stafford, there is a soft smile on his lips, as if he is unable to contain himself. 

“Walk with me,” she says. 

They step into line with each other, and the urge to reach for his hand is so strong Catherine can scarcely breathe. It is strange to her, really, now that she is open to his friendship, to his comfort, how much she realizes she wants him. 

“How was it in the country?” she asks politely. 

“It was peaceful,” he replies. “But I found it much too quiet by the end. I was eager to return.” 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“And you, your grace? How have you been these past few months?” 

Catherine, when she looks at him, finds echoes of concerns and seriousness in his eye, and knows he is talking about Henry. 

“I have been well,” she tells him. “The King is still overcome with joy and relief at the arrival of an heir.” So he has not visited my bed. Much. 

Catherine, even if she tried, could no longer hold his interest for long, even though she had finally given him a son. 

Stafford nods, and Catherine remembers how he had heard Henry demand for another son. She wonders if he thinks she will ask it of him again. 

“I wouldn’t,” she murmurs under her breath, looking away. “Not again.” 

They walk on in silence. 

“Prince Edward seems happy,” he comments. 

“He is the happiest babe I have ever seen. His eyes are full of wonder and—he has started to crawl now, you know. He is so smart.” 

Stafford lets out a light laugh, and Catherine—  
“It’s alright,” he tells her, having glimpsed the expression in her eyes. 

They walk on. 

“And Princess Mary, she seems happy.” 

“She is. She’s the smartest child I have ever met.” 

“Beautiful too, just like her mother.” 

“You flatter me,” she smiles, chuckling. 

And just like that, it’s easy. She feels comfortable in his presence, only a touch uneasy, and that is only because they are at court. As they walk, she catches sight of Lady Anne Boleyn sitting on the marble bench, overlooking the pond. 

Something stirs inside of her at the sight. She’s noticed how withdrawn the girl has become, how strained her smiles were because Catherine had recognised the same look whenever she looked in the mirror for years. 

“Wolsey?” he questions under his breath. 

Catherine falters. 

“He’s been quiet, recently. Now that Ned has been born, Henry seems to have calmed, so Wolsey has…” she trails off. 

“That viper has had fewer times to strike.” 

Catherine looks at him then, feels a lurch of fear. 

“You must be careful,” she tells him. “You must.” 

“And so must you.” 

“He can’t hurt me, Stafford—”

“He can try—” 

“The only way he can is by harming those I care for,” Catherine blurts out. “Those I trust. Those I lo—” 

She pauses. 

“You must take care,” she repeats, trying to ignore the beating of her heart. 

She doesn’t even know if she loves Stafford in that way. She cares for him, certainly, and she would not deny that—

That what? 

Catherine may have given birth to a son, but she still needs to be careful. She always does. 

When they turn the corner so they’re behind a hedge, he pulls closer to her. 

“Meet me here tonight,” he whispers. 

Catherine glances at him. 

“Stafford—” 

“Just this once,” he says, closing his eye. “Just this once, and I’ll never ask it again.” 

Catherine takes a step back, suddenly unsure. 

She shouldn’t, but she wants to. 

She’s missed him, and Catherine – she wants warmth and comfort and desire. She wants that. She can’t have it, not really, not properly, but maybe just this once she can. 

“Alright,” she agrees lowly. “Just this once.” 

She watches as he struggles to hide his smile, before it shines through, almost as though he is a kid. 

Catherine watches with a warm, flickering feeling in her chest as he walks away, and it takes her a few moments to realize she is smiling. 

-

Several hours later, as the sun disappears, Catherine leaves Mary’s chambers, having tucked her daughter into bed. Her ladies have been dismissed for the night, and so Catherine strolls through the halls, debating in her mind, trying to ignore the nervousness and slight anticipation in her heart. 

She passes by the library, and before she can stop herself she pushes the door open, steps into the room. She recalls how Stafford had held her as she cried, as she writhed in fear as she thought her baby was dying.   
“Your grace?” 

Catherine jumps at the sound of Lady Anne’s voice. 

“Lady Anne,” she gasps, hand placed over her heart. “What are you doing here?” 

“Forgive me, Queen Catherine, I was only picking out a book, my father said it was alright—” 

“It is,” Catherine interrupts. “These are the books that have been copied over the years for the court. You are well within your rights.” 

Silence falls between them, the only light being the few candles lit near the front of the room. 

“I should leave you,” Lady Anne says. “My apologies, once again—” 

“No,” Catherine cuts in. “No, please. I wish to speak with you.” 

The longer she stared at the younger woman, the more Catherine realized how much she actually had wished to talk with her over the past few weeks. 

“Oh,” Lady Anne comments. “As you wish, your grace.” 

“I heard about the dissolution of your betrothal,” Catherine begins. “I am very sorry.” 

Lady Anne glances at the ground. 

“You must be very angry,” Catherine continues, forgoing subtlety. “At Cardinal Wolsey.” 

“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean, your grace,” Lady Anne replies stiffly. 

“Wolsey,” Catherine says slowly. “Wolsey is responsible for keeping you from your Henry, is he not?” 

Lady Anne looks at her inquisitively. 

“Yes,” she answers plainly. “He is.” 

“Then you and I can help each other.” 

“How?” 

“You garner me information and when the time is right, I will secure your future.” 

“Secure my future?” 

“You’re an ambitious woman. The Percy match was rather grand for you and your family, was it not?” 

“I love Henry, your grace—” 

“I know, but that was a pleasant addition, was it not?” 

“I love Henry Percy your grace,” Lady Anne grits out. “I wanted to be his wife.” 

“But you feared Wolsey – he as well.” 

“Who does not?” 

“That is true. But what if I told you that could change?” 

Lady Anne eyes her closely. 

“You would go against the King, your grace?” 

Catherine’s gaze narrows. 

“Careful girl,” she returns slowly. “I’m offering you the opportunity to one day wed your love.” 

“He’s married.” 

“Unhappily, so I’ve heard. An annulment would be easy to obtain, if he were willing. If the big obstacle was out of the picture.” 

“And in return for guaranteeing me an advantageous marriage, you would have me give you…” 

“Information,” Catherine replies. “You’re one of the most popular girls at court, Lady Boleyn. You have influence.” 

“You are the Queen.” 

“I am. But I also have a role to play. And if Wolsey can have eyes and ears everywhere, so can I.” 

“And you would help me, if I did this for you?” Lady Anne asks. “Despite—” She hesitates. 

“Despite your sister formerly sharing my husband’s bed?” 

Lady Anne nods. 

“I don’t blame her,” Catherine says softly. “I don’t. And if she needs assistance with anything, she shall have it too.” 

Catherine glances down to the ground. 

“I want to save England, Lady Anne,” Catherine tells her. “This is a small beginning, but valuable.” 

“And you believe you can?”

“I can try,” Catherine replies honestly. “But I’ll need help. Will you assist me? Not out of love for me, but—” 

“Out of hatred of Wolsey?” Lady Anne jests wryly. 

Catherine chuckles. 

“Yes. If that is what it takes.” 

Lady Anne eyes her closely. 

“I will help you, your grace,” the other woman says finally. 

“Thank you.” 

“But if my family is placed in any danger, or suspected of anything—” 

“They won’t be—” 

“I will stop and tell the truth if forced.” 

“I know,” Catherine responds. “I would not ask for anything more.” 

And with that level of understanding, they part. 

Catherine waits a few more moments before she descends into the gardens through the back doors, careful to ensure that no one was following her. 

She walks, and eventually—

“Catherine,” Edward calls out, sneaking his hand out to grab her wrist. 

“You scared me,” Catherine chides softly. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, letting go of her wrist. “Truly. And for this—” 

“Stafford—” 

“I just—I feel as though there is much for us to say, and we need space to say it.” 

“I understand,” Catherine murmurs, aware of how close they are to each other. 

For a few moments, they merely stare at each other. And really, what can Catherine say? What can she promise? Nothing. She cannot promise or guarantee him anything. She’s put him in enough danger. 

“Thank you,” Catherine states. “I know I’ve said it before, but I truly wish to thank you, from the depths of my soul. For comforting me, for being there for me, no matter how much I pushed you away or distanced myself. You were always steady. Constant.” 

“Of course,” he replies, almost as if he could not believe she expected anything else. “Catherine, I—” 

He reaches for her hand. 

“Stafford,” she whispers. 

He laughs. 

“Will you ever call me Edward?” he asks. 

“Do you want me to?” 

He pauses. 

“Yes, I think I would.” 

“Very well,” she acquiesces. “I shall call you Edward from now on.” 

They laugh together quietly. 

“I can’t believe how much Ned has grown.” 

“Neither can I,” Catherine replies. “Sometimes I can barely believe he is real.” 

“He is,” Stafford—Edward says. “This all is. Your position is stable now.” 

Catherine huffs. 

“He wants another son,” she says. “You know this, you heard it.” 

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.” 

“What?” she breathes. 

“Do you want to have another child?” he questions quietly. 

Edward leans his head against hers, their noses almost touching. She breathes him in, his scent, something musky and sweet all at once. She feels his breath caress her lashes. His hands move to rest behind her neck, caress the skin there. She lifts her hands to encircle his wrists. 

Words cannot voice the emotions swirling in her veins. 

“I want to,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “I want you, Edward. But I cannot risk it. Not again.” 

“I know,” he replies. His fingers spread warmth throughout her body. “I know. A part of me wondered--” he stops, as if knowing better than to say it aloud. 

Catherine begins to pull away, stops when his hands move to grip her own. 

“But surely,” he starts, voice husky with warmth. “Surely, there are other things we may partake in?” 

He presses a long, lingering kiss to her neck. Catherine hums at the sensation. 

“Whatever do you mean?” she questions, a smile playing at her lips. She can enjoy this, this pleasure, just this once. Surely, that cannot be a sin? To feel, to be alive. 

“Why, your grace,” he jests, his lips curving upward. “Let me show you.” 

Catherine casts a glance around them. He catches her doing it. 

“We shall be fast,” he tells her seriously. He presses a gentle kiss to her lips. Something catches in her chest. Something sad and heavy, for they will have nothing more than this – if this ever again. It’ll be only stolen moments, laden with guilt and danger and unease. 

But—

“Very well,” she teases, forcing a smile to her lips. “You may show me.” 

He laughs and bends down to press a kiss to her wrist. 

Catherine watches as he kneels, wraps his hands around her ankles, before they slide higher and higher. 

Catherine tilts her head back, tries to bite down her gasp. He begins to lift her skirts higher and higher. Catherine has enough presence of mind to aid him, to hold onto her gown loosely in her grip. 

When he presses a lingering kiss to her inner thigh, Catherine lets out a low, heady moan. 

He pauses then, and Catherine manages to open her eyes and stare at him. His expression is not triumphant or victorious, but pleased, in a warm-hearted sort of way. He is glad he can give her this. Catherine leans forward, strokes his chin, his beard. He leans into her touch, but soon pulls her hand away and goes back to his ministrations. 

When he makes it to the area between her thighs, Catherine has to bring her hand to her mouth to muffle her moan. And she aches for him. She wants him now, maybe forever.   
Strangely enough, that realization isn’t frightening. 

v. 

When Ned reaches eight months old, Catherine receives word from her nephew that he and part of his court will visit England to discuss his engagement with Mary. 

Catherine feels her gut clench. 

“You’ve heard?” she questions Henry, as they break their fast in the great hall. “That my nephew Charles desires to come here for a summit?” 

“Yes,” Henry replies, shoving a piece of pie into his mouth. “I have heard, and already sent my reply. He shall come.” 

“Very well,” Catherine says, eyeing her husband. Henry’s beard has continued to grow over the expanse of his skin, though now it is shorter, cut close to his jaw. “I’m glad you have agreed to it, Henry.” 

He huffs. 

“Are you with child, Catherine?” he asks casually. 

Catherine drops her fork. He visited her bed a moon ago, but that was it. 

“No,” she replies, having just finished her moon’s course. “I am not.” 

“Hmph.” 

“Our son is doing well,” Catherine continues. “He’s grown steadily.” 

“Yes,” Henry agrees thankfully. “He has. He has all the makings of a handsome prince.” 

“And our daughter will be excited to meet her betrothed again.” 

“All girls become overcome at such things,” Henry retorts. 

Catherine takes a sip from her wine, trying to hide her unease. 

“We must begin the preparations,” Henry says. “They shall be here by August, if all goes well.” 

“Yes, of course, as you wish.” 

“They must be splendid preparations, to show off our son. We must pretty up Mary too.” 

Their daughter is the most beautiful girl Catherine has ever seen, but she bites her tongue. Her husband has spent the past few months bathing in excess, as if he had won some massive victory. 

Catherine looks away. 

“Of course,” she says smoothly, trying to loosen the tightening of her jaw. 

“And the perfect announcement when our daughter’s future husband arrives would be the Queen being with child, to secure the future of the Tudor dynasty. After all, we need an heir and a spare. Bear in mind, your childbearing years are almost over.” 

Catherine recalls then all of her miscarriages, the son they had lost. 

“As if becoming with child and giving birth successfully is so simple,” she mutters, unable to help herself. 

“What was that?” Henry demands sharply. “What did you say?” 

He leans in towards her. 

“You will do as I command, Catherine. And I want—” she smells the wine on his breath. “I demand another son of you.” 

Catherine thinks of Edward, of his offer, of his question: do you want another child? 

But no—she could not risk it. It was by pure chance and luck that Ned looked like her. If she had another child – son or daughter – and it looked like neither her or Henry, but someone else entirely, she would be done for, as well as her children. 

“As you command, Henry,” she chimes sweetly. “I will do my best.” 

\--

Later, Catherine finds herself kneeling in the Church, rosary wrapped around her hand. 

God, guide me, she thinks. Help me on this journey. 

Catherine seems to be constantly underestimating people these days. 

She stirs when she hears the door to the chapel open and turns to find Lady Anne slipping into the room. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” she greets, rising from the ground. 

“Your grace,” Lady Anne returns, curtsying quickly. “Apologies for interrupting your prayers.” 

“It’s nothing. I assume you have news?” 

“Murmurings, to be sure.” 

Lady Anne glances around the chapel. 

“It’s empty,” Catherine assures her. “Wolsey is at a meeting, anyway.” 

“You seem well acquainted with his schedule, your grace.” 

“Henry mentioned it. I assumed you have something you wished to tell me.” 

“Yes, I did. Wolsey has been receiving massive jewels, funds, and exotic animals from the French.” 

“Animals?” 

“Snakes, apparently, amongst other things.” 

“But Henry knows Wolsey has dealings with the French.” 

“Yes, but this recent arrival is meant to show the might of French power.” 

“Over that of my nephew?” 

“Your grace, I am sure you’ve heard the rumours that King Charles may forgo this alliance in order to marry earlier. There are murmurs that that is why he has decided to come. The French would be the next viable option.” 

“You spent time at the French court, did you not?” Catherine asks. 

The other woman shrugs. 

“Yes. But my home is here, and my loyalty is to you.” 

For the moment. 

They both knew the truth, though it was unsaid. No one would expect an alliance between the two. 

“God,” Catherine breathes, shaking her head. “My daughter will not marry that French viper’s son. We will see what my nephew says when he arrives in England. Thank you, Lady Boleyn.” 

The younger girl nods and leaves the chapel as quickly as she had entered it. 

\--

“Catherine, you look tired,” Lina tells her, as Catherine rocks her son as she sits in her rocking chair. 

Her nephew will be arriving on the shores of England within weeks. 

“I am,” Catherine says. 

Henry has also been visiting her bed almost every night for the past two moons, which has added to her feelings of tiredness. 

“The King has been visiting you often,” her friend comments. “If you need rest, will he not give it to you?” 

“He wants another son,” Catherine says. “Lina, I don’t know how to solve it.” 

“What, Catalina?” 

“England, Henry. All of it. I thought a son would calm him, but it hasn’t.” 

Catherine thinks of Henry’s recent visits to her bed, and almost shudders.   
“I don’t know what to do. I think my children have been holding me back.” 

“How?” 

“Everything I do impacts them. If I displease Henry, he will take them away. It was a miracle he let them stay as close as they have already. And soon Ned will be taken to Wales, as Arthur was. I’ve been so worried he would do something, and I love them more than—” 

“More than you love him,” Lina finishes for her, smiling gently. 

It occurs to Catherine then that Lina may well still believe Catherine is still in love with Henry, that she still desires his attention above all others. It’s important that the court believes it, that Henry does. 

Only her and Edward know that is not true. 

“Yes,” Catherine agrees, suddenly feeling even more exhausted. “Of course, I do.” 

Ned stirs in her arms. 

“I can’t bear to be apart from them, and I’ve been worried that if I did something, they would be taken away. I didn’t even realize how scared I was until now.” 

And Catherine realizes that it is true. She hadn’t realized it. Part of her has been struggling with what to do, how to proceed, because she’s scared that her children will be taken away. And she cannot reason with Henry. The last time she had was when she was carrying Ned – or when he thought she was carrying a babe, anyway. 

“We must see what happens with my nephew,” Catherine says, clearing her throat. “Many are saying he has come to appease Henry when he buys out of his engagement to Mary.” 

“Do you think he will? I know you wanted a Spanish marriage.” 

“I do,” Catherine admits. “But Mary is so young. She has only turned seven, Lina. And he is a few years past twenty, he needs to secure his throne. I understand that. But to think of a French marriage, of Wolsey sending my daughter off to that court—I can’t even think of it.” 

“There are more suitable men for Mary, Catherine.” 

“I know,” Catherine admits, stroking Ned’s back. “But I wanted her to go to a court where I knew she would be safe. I know how rare that it—trust me, I know. I came here with no guarantee of anything. But I wanted something different for her. Something better.” 

“And she will have that Catherine. You’ll guarantee it.” 

“I’ll try. But Henry—” Catherine sighs, shaking her head. 

“Meg!” she exclaims suddenly. 

“Catherine?” 

“Meg’s son, James. He’s only a few years older than Mary, and he’s nearby. Besides, Meg has recently regained control of the regency in Scotland.” 

“Has she finally written to you?” 

“Yes,” Catherine says, recalling the months it had taken for Meg to respond, though when she had she had been nothing but warm and welcoming. “But the union has its merits, does it not? It would keep the French out of Scotland and Meg would ensure no harm would come to Mary. She would raise her son right.” 

“That is if Charles forgoes the engagement.” 

“Yes, that’s true,” Catherine acknowledges. “But it is an alternative worth thinking about.” 

“Would Henry agree?” 

“I don’t know. Let’s just wait and see.” 

\--

The day her nephew is set to arrive at Westminster, Catherine finds herself in a conversation with Thomas More. He had been a part of the retinue sent to greet her nephew when he arrived and had only just managed to return to Westminster before Charles came. 

“Are you prepared?” Catherine asks. “For the negotiations that are to follow?” 

“Surely, your grace, as I am sure you are. Being such a gifted politician.” 

“Gifted, you say? You make me out to be a hero.” 

Thomas More chuckles. 

“Your grace, I have no doubt that you would defy all the heroes of history--” he stops himself. 

Catherine quirks her brow. 

“If not for my sex?” she prompts. 

He looks away guiltily. Catherine finds More an intriguing man, pious to a fault. Maggie had cherished his friendship. She wonders why her friend avoids him now, and vows to find out. 

“Your grace—” 

Catherine laughs slightly. 

“Do not worry, good Sir,” she interrupts, smiling. “That is a sufficient enough compliment.” 

He relaxes at her teasing demeanor, but inside something in her almost growls. Catherine has known how to use her charms and beauty since she was a girl. After all, she had used them on Henry, at least in the beginning. It is a useful thing, to know your beauty, your attributes, and to use them. 

She will have to teach that to her own children. 

When she waits with Henry on the front steps of Westminster for her nephew to arrive, she wonders what surprises will come. She wonders if they want to go to war again with France, or if he really will ask to be released from his vow to wed Mary. Her daughter is dressed in a beautiful deep blue gown, and is right by Catherine’s side, in case she was fearful or nervous about all the celebrations. 

The biggest surprise, however, when her nephew rolls into England is that he brings Rosa with him as part of his court retinue. 

Catherine spots her friend early in the proceedings, and by the gasp that escapes Lina’s lips she’s sure her friend has done the same. 

“Aunt,” Charles greets with a wide smile, pressing kisses to her cheeks. 

“Welcome to England, Charles,” she tells him, forcing a smile to her lips. 

He goes to greet Henry, and Catherine watches the exchange with a hint of anxiety.

Her husband has always been a jealous man, after all. Not that he would suspect anything untowards by her nephew, but Henry is jealous of beauty, of wealth, of youth. 

Catherine shoves it aside. 

“You must meet our son,” Henry tells him, beckoning the nursemaids over. 

“He is a beautiful boy,” Charles tells them, looking at Ned with a gentle expression. “A true and worthy Prince.”   
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Henry muses. “Come, let us talk.” 

Catherine watches them go with a small hint of unease. Surely her nephew would not tell Henry about any important plans without her present. At least, Catherine is mildly certain he would not. 

Hours later, after they’ve feasted and talked, Catherine manages to escape, and finds Lina and Rosa mingling in the gardens, with Lina’s children hanging around her skirts. Lina smiles even wider at the sight of her, and Rosa turns, and is holding Lina’s youngest son in her arms. 

“Catherine,” Rosa exclaims, hurrying over to hug her, though she is careful to angle the babe away from their bodies. 

“Rosa,” Catherine breathes, holding onto her tightly. “It’s so good to see you in England.” 

They pull away. 

“It’s been a long time,” Rosa says. She looks around with a small smile. “You have definitely improved from the gardens from how I remember them.” 

Catherine chuckles. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

Lina comes close to them, lets Rosa give her son back. 

“I will leave you two to catch up,” she says, flashing them a smile. “I need to return my boys home, anyway.” 

They watch her go with fond smiles and talks of them all joining together at a later date to converse and speak of their experiences. 

“I heard you now have a son,” Rosa says, eyes kind. “May I meet him?” 

Catherine’s joy dims at her words. 

Oh God, she thinks, guilt filling her gut. 

“Of course,” Catherine replies, trying to hide her sudden unease. 

She turns, waves the nursemaid over, and catches a glimpse of Stafford standing to the side, watching her and Rosa. Catherine cannot bare to look at him now. 

Catherine grabs Ned from the nursemaid, holds him close to her body, and turns back to Rosa, a lump suddenly in her throat. 

“This is my son,” Catherine introduces. “Prince Edward.” 

Rosa leans forward, caresses Ned’s rosy cheek as a smile grows on her lips. 

“He is a beautiful boy, Catherine,” she murmurs. 

Catherine feels her stomach clench. 

“Thank you, Rosa,” she tells her genuinely. She wonders if she can tell, if she senses that the man who broke her heart all those years ago fathered this child. Catherine cannot believe she forgot. It sounds horrible, but after everything, after all these years, his treatment of Rosa had faded to the back of her mind, drowned out by the man she knew him to be now. 

Catherine feels herself grow cold. How could she look Rosa in the eye? She had to. It wasn’t a fair or clear-cut situation. Catherine knew that. And yet, she still felt guilty. For caring for him, for desiring him. For forgetting because he was kind to her. 

Catherine frowns when she notices a sudden grimace appear on Rosa’s face. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. She turns, follows Rosa’s gaze to find Edward. Catherine can sense the tenseness in his body, sees how he has paled. Catherine tries not to pale as well. Tries to ignore how he’s staring at her now. 

She turns back to Rosa, tries to keep her gaze even. 

“Fine,” her friend responds. “It’ll never be easy, to see him.” 

When to Catherine, seeing him was like a breath of fresh air. 

“I understand,” Catherine tells her, which in some manner she does. 

“Have you forgiven him?” 

Rosa looks at her then. 

“I’m sorry, my friend, forgive me—” 

“Yes,” Rosa replies evenly. “I am happy now. With my children, my husband. I wish for the same for him as well. But that does not mean I want to be near him.” 

Catherine nods, smiles weakly, and looks away.   
vi. 

Charles breaks off the engagement to Mary, as she suspected he would. 

“I am sorry, Aunt,” he tells her in Spanish, right after he informed Henry at their private meeting. “But I must secure the succession to my Kingdom. I must ease my people’s concerns, and my dear cousin is too young to be a mother, to be wedded and bedded.” 

“I understand,” Catherine tells him, also in Spanish. And she does, but she is still disappointed, and this will make it harder for Mary, could possibly send her to the lion’s den. 

Catherine ignores the angry looks Henry keeps on sending her way for as long as she can. 

“You told me he wanted this marriage,” Henry tells her—accuses her, more like, after Charles retires to his rooms. “You said it would be good for England, and now he has forsaken our daughter.” 

“He swore to another alliance between our son and any future daughter he might have,” Catherine replies, as calmly as she can. “And he has offered us reparations – money, gold, trade jewels from the New World. There are others Mary can wed.” 

Henry continues to glare at her. 

“Yes,” Wolsey cuts in, from where he sits on Henry’s other side at the council table. “Her grace is quite right. There is the French marriage, and—” 

“Meg,” Catherine cuts in. She’s aware of several eyes now on her. 

“Meg?” Henry scoffs. “What does my sister have to do with anything?” 

“Her son,” Catherine clarifies softly. “James is only a few years older than Mary. Scotland is nearby, Meg would ensure her wellbeing—” Catherine is aware that their daughter’s wellbeing is of little consequence to Henry, so she quickly adds: “And if the Scottish King is married to an Englishwoman, that will keep the country out of French hands, which is something we all want, alliance or not.” 

For a moment, Henry appears to be mildly mollified. 

“Scotland?” Wolsey scoffs. “Your majesty, it is a poor nation, unworthy of your daughter.” 

“It is valuable,” Catherine corrects. “And a strategic ally. The Scots have already been raising trouble at the borders, despire Meg’s presence and recent regaining of the regency. Their engagement would secure this peace to last throughout our son’s reign, Henry.” 

“But France is wealthier, more powerful, your majesty,” Wolsey interrupts. “It would bring you much influence in Europe. And besides, we can crush the Scots as easily as breadcrumbs. We have given them chances to surrender, and they have refused. Let them be punished accordingly. Hopefully, the King’s sister will be able to reason with her son and keep him out of Scottish influence.” 

“Yes, you’re quite right, Wolsey,” Henry states, despite Catherine’s muffled objection. 

She quiets herself. There is still time to change Henry’s mind. After all, Mary is only seven years old, it’ll be years before she weds. 

And yet Catherine is so scared. So scared she will lose her daughter or send her off to some brute that she can scarcely breathe. 

The meeting soon ends, and Catherine leaves to meet with Lina and Rosa. 

Her distress must show on her face because her old friends ask her what the matter is at once. 

“Oh Catalina,” Lina sighs, once Catherine has told them. “I am sorry.” 

“As am I,” Rosa adds, reaching for one of Catherine’s hands. “So sorry.” 

And what can they say, really? 

So many women have been helpless in these situations. Have watched their daughters and sons ripped from their arms and wed to people they do not know or approve of. Have witnessed their unhappiness. 

Catherine will never forgive herself if she does not fight her hardest to secure Mary’s happiness. No- that is out of the question. 

“If any woman can solve it, Catherine,” Rosa says. “It is you.” 

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and Catherine tenses when it opens and is revealed to be Edward. 

“Apologies, your grace,” he says. “I did not know you had company. I wished to speak with you.” 

Catherine rises, almost instinctively shields Rosa from his gaze. 

“In a little while, I will speak with you,” she says, avoiding staring at him in the eye. “But not now.” 

He nods and leaves the room. 

Catherine sinks back into her chair. 

“Rosa, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” her friend says. “He has apologized to me, you know?” 

“Really?” Catherine and Lina ask. 

“He has,” Rosa confirms. “For everything. I don’t want to say it all, but—he did apologize. And that is something.” 

“Yes,” Catherine agrees lowly. “I suppose it is.” 

\--

Later, when they have left, Edward comes into her parlour. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I did not know that they would be here.” 

“It’s alright,” Catherine replies, taking a sip of her wine. “I heard you apologized to Rosa.” 

Her back is to him as she says this. 

“I did,” he says. “It was something I thought of for years but never thought I’d have the chance to say.” 

His voice is heavy with regret and desperation. 

“I know,” Catherine says, for she does. “I know you did.” 

Silence follows for a few moments. 

“You’ve been avoiding me ever since it was announced that your nephew would come to England,” Edward murmurs. “Catherine, I’m sorry that Henry refused to let Mary wed James. I am.” 

Catherine turns to face him. 

“I know that too,” she sniffs. “And you are right. I have not wanted to see you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because there was nothing you could do,” Catherine says. “Nothing. Henry wants another child – another son. And he was relentless in pursuing that goal. He wanted to announce it before my nephew to show proof of the strength of his reign, of his virility. Being near you would have made it harder.” 

Would have been more tempting, just to put Henry’s fears to rest. 

“Catherine, if you wish it, I will give you another child.” 

“Why?” she asks. 

“Why?” 

“Why? Why would you risk it?” 

“Because I love you.” 

Catherine freezes. 

“I love you, Catherine. I fell in love with you over years, in small increments, in small moments, when I saw your strength and your failures, I fell for you.” 

“Stop,” she whispers, closing her eyes. 

“I would promise you the world,” Edward breathes. “Catherine, I can promise you my devotion, my love, my—” 

“Stop,” Catherine interrupts again, jaw clenching. “Stop.” 

He does. She looks at him then, leans forward to stroke his cheek, her touch light, like the wind kissing your skin. 

“I don’t need grand, great promises,” Catherine murmurs. “I don’t need you to promise me the moon and the stars, Edward. I just need you to be here, to be constant.” 

“Catherine—” 

“Henry once promised to love me until the end of our days. Said that if my love could blow away like dust, he would forget me. Promises and words mean nothing; actions do.” 

She removes her hands from his face. 

“I used to think that love had to be full of passion, desire and—” she chuckles darkly. “I now realize that often enough, all of those attributes blind you to the truth, make you addicted to a false notion of a person, regardless if it is good for you.” 

“Catherine,” Edward says, voice soft. “Loving you was the best thing Henry ever did.”

Catherine sighs. 

“I am not sure of that,” she murmurs, averting her gaze. She senses him reach for her, but she stops him with a shake of her head. “Even now, Edward, there are things about me you do not know.” 

“I don’t understand,” he says. 

“I lay with Arthur.” 

She garners the courage to look at him. 

“I lay with him, Edward. I lied so I could be Henry’s Queen. Lady Margaret was right. She was right about all of it.” 

She cannot read his expression at all, and she fears she has lost him already. But Catherine cannot in good conscience accept his love for her when he does not truly know her character, when he doesn’t know the worst of her. 

Catherine may have loved Henry, yes. He may have lied to her, been unfaithful and cruel, but that does not change the fact their love was based on a lie, however excusable or justifiable she had thought it to be. 

“I’m an ambitious woman, Edward,” she murmurs. “I’m willing to do what it takes to survive.”

“Catherine,” he says finally, causing her heart rate to increase suddenly. “You have seen me at my worst, and I can assure you, that my worst was undoubtedly unforgivable compared to yours. You wanted to be Queen of England, like you were born to be. I do not think that is something you need to apologize for.” 

“You never cease to surprise me, you know,” she replies, heartbeat slowing. She feels almost silly, now. This man has helped her commit treason, has aided her in betraying her husband, is the father of her son. He of all people knows the lengths she will take to survive, to protect her children. 

And yet, he is still here. He sees all of her and loves her regardless and that is something Henry has never done. Maybe that’s what love really is. 

vii. 

It is the day before Ned’s first birthday when it happens. 

Catherine has been arranging the festivities and ornaments for the past several weeks when her sister-in-law Mary arrives with her child. 

“She’s beautiful,” Catherine tells her, holding the babe-Frances—close to her chest. 

They’re strolling through the castle grounds, with Catherine’s own children, Maggie, Lina and Edward lingering nearby, along with a few other courtiers. 

“Thank you,” Mary says. “I certainly think so.” 

“Charlie must be delighted with her.” 

“He loves Frances dearly,” Mary chuckles. “Truly.” 

Catherine remembers Henry’s reaction to their daughter and is glad her friend has been spared the same pain. 

“Good,” Catherine states. 

They walk a little ahead. 

“Henry is disappointed.” 

Catherine turns to look at her sharply. 

“What?” she questions, disbelief evident in her voice.

“My dear brother wrote to me also,” Mary tells her. “After the birth. Said he was expecting a companion for his son, not a useless girl. He told me to do better next time.” 

“Mary…” Catherine cannot find the words. “I am so sorry.” 

“It is not your fault.” 

Mary opens up her arms, and Catherine gives back Frances. 

“I am tired,” Mary says. “And I need to feed her. If you will excuse me.” 

“Of course. Rest, dear Mary.” 

Catherine watches her as she goes with a clenched stomach, and that is when she smells it. 

It is a horrible odour, and it permeates the air. 

“What is that?” Catherine whispers. 

The rest of their small little party reach her, and Catherine can see by their expressions that they all spell it. It smells rotten—no, worse than that. Catherine cannot describe it. 

She turns slightly to stare at the heavens, and that is when she notices it. 

Smoke. Enough to cover the entire sky with dark grey.

“What is that?” Catherine asks, her heartbeat quickening. “Edward, what is that?” 

There’s much smoke. So much. And the smell—

Catherine lifts a hand to her face, tries to cover her mouth and nose. 

“Go inside,” she commands Mary, waving her hands so her ladies come and take her children inside. “Go!” 

Mary is pulled away into the castle, and Ned has been hurried inside. 

“Fire,” Catherine gasps. “There is a fire in the town. People are burning.” 

Edward follows her as she hurries into the castle to find Henry in the council room. 

“Your majesty,” she declares. “Have you seen the smoke? Have you smelt the bodies burning? We must help them.” 

“Help them?” Henry drawls. “The fires were lit on my orders.” 

“Your orders? Henry those are innocents—” 

“Forgive me, your grace,” Wolsey cuts in from where he sits beside Henry. “That is not true. Those were the Lutherans that plagued this nation.” 

Catherine turns her gaze towards Henry. 

“You burnt dozens the night before our son’s nameday?” she asks, trying to steady her voice. 

“To Honour God,” Wolsey returns. “For preserving Prince Edward’s life. God is evidently honoured by persecution of this false worship.” 

And Catherine—Catherine almost laughs. I lost our babe the night we burnt those books, she wishes to cry, but she can’t. She can’t. It’s impossible. 

“Is this what you wish, Henry?” Catherine asks, oddly calm. 

Her husband’s expression is blank. There is no remorse in his eyes. Nothing. 

“Yes,” he declares. “This is God’s will Catherine. This is my will. He is on our side.” 

“Of course,” she agrees. “If this is what you wish, then God must have commanded it.” 

“I am glad you are seeing the light, Catherine,” Henry says, a pleased smiling forming on his lips. “Aren’t you, Wolsey?” 

“Of course, your majesty,” the Cardinal says. “It is best for everyone if we rid this country of the Lutherans.” 

Catherine bites on the inside of her cheek. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “I see that now. Forgive me for interrupting, Henry.” 

She casts her husband a small smile and moves forward to press a kiss to his cheek, like she used to. She takes care not to look away when he looks into her eyes. 

“I will go to our children,” she tells him. “I will see you soon, Henry.” 

And with a small curtsy, Catherine walks out of the room. She does not stop walking until she reaches the outside of Mary’s chambers, where she is sure her daughter and son are waiting for her. Edward follows her there, and without a word he embraces her silently.   
Catherine would love to linger in his hold, but she knows it is too dangerous. 

More importantly, she knows what she now has to do. 

\--

Later that night, Catherine, her sister-in-law, Maggie and Stafford go to the Tower of London, where some of the burnings were lit. Many were burnt in the city’s center, right in the marketplace, but Catherine cannot go there. Too many would notice. 

So, she goes to the Tower, where the smell of burning flesh still lingers, where not all the ash and bone has been collected, and almost chokes with the sudden guilt that overwhelms her. She hears Mary let out a shaky breath, and does not blame her when she refuses to move forward like Catherine does, as she walks towards the now collapsed pyre. 

Quietly, Catherine kneels and issues a prayer. 

“Wolsey,” Mary breathes, loudly enough for only them three to hear. “This is Wolsey’s doing.” 

Wolsey or Henry, it does not matter. 

What matters is what Catherine can do next. 

“I’m sorry,” Catherine whispers, closing her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” 

Catherine is a true and loyal Christian, it is true. But the thought of burning people alive by the masses is unthinkable. Unthinkable. Henry burned close to three dozen people in one day. One day. 

She closes her eyes, tries to breathe easier. 

“This cannot stand,” she states quietly. “It cannot.” 

She glances at Edward. Wolsey already targets him, so she must keep him largely out of her plans. But the others… Maggie and Mary look at her, and they must see the question in her eyes, for they nod wordlessly. 

After the year’s Christmas celebrations, Catherine sends him and Mary to Eltham. 

“I cannot keep smothering them,” Catherine explains to Henry. “And now, I can focus more on becoming with child.” 

He nods with approval. 

Mary does not approve. She’s sullen and sad and angry and Catherine—it breaks her heart to see it. 

“I know you are mad,” she tells her daughter, the night before she is to leave for Eltham. “And I hope one day you understand.” 

“You are ashamed of me,” her daughter whispers. 

“No! No, never think that Mary,” Catherine tells her fiercely. “You and your brother are the greatest blessings of my life. Both of you.” 

“Papa doesn’t think so.” 

“Then that is his fault,” Catherine declares. Her daughter looks at her, eyes wide. “It is not your fault, Mary. It never was. I love you, never doubt that. But this must be done, at least for now.” 

Catherine cannot risk her children seeing such things – burnings and beheadings and fear. She cannot. She must shield them, must hide them away. If she does it first, Henry will not use them as a punishment. 

“You will write to me, every week,” Catherine tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I will write back, and I will try and see you as much as I can. I’m sorry, Mary.” 

She wipes away her daughter’s tears and tries to hide her own. 

At least she has seen Ned walk for the first time, has heard his first word. At least that too has not been robbed from her. But her and Mary have lost so much time. Too much. She is angry at herself, at Henry, at Wolsey. And because of Mary, because of Ned, she will now work her hardest to be rid of the fowl Cardinal and bring her children back to her. 

viii. 

They start small. 

Catherine uses the women to find information, to learn about Wolsey as much as they can. They support each other. She writes to Meg, finds strength in her own wisdom, and tries to increase the love of her people. She gives out charity twice as often as she used to, visits orphanages, helps in any way she can.

The burnings continue, and Catherine ensures that when they go out in public, the people express their disdain of Wolsey, and voice their love for her, even if they are cool towards Henry. 

Her husband has always wanted to be loved, to be admired, and Catherine will use that to her advantage. 

When a few moons pass, Catherine speaks to Bessie, and invites her son to go to Eltham. Now that Henry has Ned, he has neglected his illegitimate one, and Catherine knows this. 

“Bessie,” Catherine begins, eyeing the girl. She was so young when Henry made her his mistress, was she not? Only a few years older than Catherine had been when she came to England. And yet, she is a mother to a now forgotten son. “I am sorry.” 

Bessie returns her gaze cautiously. 

“I want my son to know his brother,” Catherine tells her. “If you allow it, little Henry will be situated at Eltham Palace with my son, to be his companion and dear friend. Princess Mary should know her brother also, since they are so close in age.” 

Bessie had agreed, and that was that. 

When Henry hears of it, he voices his approval, and Catherine does not miss how Wolsey’s nostrils flare, before his eyes flash to Edward down the table. 

Catherine had asked him to go, to leave, to shield himself. 

“I will not,” he had said. “I’ll never leave you. Never.” 

Catherine had accepted it, accepted the fact that as she steadily increased public hatred towards Wolsey with carefully planted rumours and acts of charity, until one day she met with Lady Anne. 

“Wolsey wishes to spread a rumour,” Lady Anne tells her.

“Rumour?” Catherine questions, heart growing cold. “What rumour?” 

The Lady Anne eyes her closely. 

“He wishes to spread a rumour that you and the Duke of Buckingham are lovers,” she tells Catherine plainly. “That you wish to have his seed inside you.” 

“That Judas,” Catherine says lowly, shaking her head. Wolsey is so close to the truth – too close. His mind may wonder, may twist and spin, and if he tells Henry of his suspicions—

Catherine thinks of Mary, of Ned. Of all the ones she cares for. 

Lady Anne says nothing, lets Catherine think. 

She cannot have Wolsey ruin her loved ones. She cannot. 

She will not. 

“Thank you,” she hears herself say. “You may go.” 

Catherine watches Lady Anne leave the chapel with shaky legs. 

Later, she finds Edward, and tells him he needs to leave. 

“Go,” she says. “Please. Go to your estates or flee to Calais or France or Spain. But leave here. Please.” 

“I can’t do that, Catherine. You know that.” 

“You can,” she gasps. “You must. I can’t save you again if you’re arrested.” 

Her voice breaks. 

“Please, Edward. Please.” 

“I love you,” he tells her. “You know this.” 

“Edward, I—” 

“I know,” he tells her, leaning his forehead against hers. “I know, Catherine. But I still can’t leave. My family is here. My children are here. I cannot abandon them.” 

“Then take them with you.” 

“Not all of them.” 

The reminder draws her short. 

“Alright,” Catherine exhales shortly. “Alright. But you must promise me this. If it is confirmed that Henry is thinking of arresting you, before I can get rid of Wolsey, that you and your family will flee.” 

“I promise that,” Edward allows. “I can promise that.” 

“Good.” 

\--

Wolsey has always been a dangerous man. Catherine knows this. 

She just never considered how far he would truly be willing to go. 

A few days after her conversation with Edward, Catherine is still scrambling to figure out how to rid herself of the Cardinal when she stumbles across Bessie and some messenger boy. 

Bessie is crying hysterically, her face unbearably red, and Catherine feels her heart drop to the very depths of her stomach. 

“What has happened?” she demands, staring at the messenger. It takes her a moment to recognize his badge—he is from Eltham. Oh no, she thinks. Oh no no no. 

“What did you tell her?” she demands again. “Speak!” 

“The King’s son,” the messenger gasps. “Henry Fitzroy has fallen from his pony your grace, when he was with the Prince in the gardens. He is gravely injured and has fallen into a deep sleep.” 

Catherine looks at Bessie, who has ceased to calm, not that Catherine can blame her. 

“Bessie,” she calls out, approaching the woman. Her hands are gentle as she reaches for Bessie’s wrists, forces her to hold still. “Go prepare yourself, I will arrange a carriage for you to go to Eltham at once. We will send a barber with you.” 

Catherine glances at Lina, who without a word moves to support Bessie and lead her away. 

“How did he fall?” Catherine questions, once Bessie is out of earshot. 

“A snake, your grace,” the boy murmurs, gaze downcast. 

“A snake?” Catherine repeats, incredulous. 

“The gardener killed it, your grace. Said it was unlike any snake he had ever seen.” 

Catherine pauses, her breath catching at his words. 

“Unlike any he had ever seen?” 

The boy nods. 

“He said it looked foreign.” 

And Catherine recalls then a conversation she once had Mistress Boleyn, about Wolsey and his French gifts, and Catherine feels her heart plummet to her stomach. 

“Oh God,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Sir. Ride back to Eltham at once and tell the gardener to hide the snake. Tell him to say that he buried it or threw it away if anyone asks. I will pay you handsomely for this service.”

“Of course, your grace.” 

“Thank you.” Catherine looks down at her hands and slides off one of her rings. “Here. Hide it in your pouch. You will surely fetch a handsome price for it, though ensure you do not go bartering anywhere nearby. Return to Westminster as soon as you have retrieved the snake, and I will pay you more when you return. Come back with the gardener – and hurry.” 

She then turns on her heel and goes to find Henry. 

Catherine cares not if she appears to be hurried. Her only concern is to find Henry, to tell him before—

“Ah, your grace,” Wolsey greets, from where he stands beside her husband in the throne room. “I was just telling his grace about the unfortunate accident that has befallen dear Henry Fitzroy.” 

“Yes,” Catherine murmurs, heart pounding. “I’m amazed you heard of it so fast, Cardinal.” 

He purses his lips. 

“I saw Lady Blount in the halls,” he replies stiffly. “And I learnt about the source of her duress. Terrible.” 

“Absolutely,” Catherine says at once. “An atrocious thing, to fear for the life of your child.” 

Catherine turns towards Henry. 

“I am sorry your son has experienced such troubles, Henry,” she tells him, softening her gaze. She is sorry for that. Truly. 

“Thank you, Catherine,” Henry tells her, appearing to be somewhat shaken by the news. 

She moves to his side, interlaces their hands. 

“I am sure Cardinal Wolsey will ensure his wellbeing, and go and bless his soul and safe recovery,” she tells him. “Won’t you, Cardinal? To ensure Henry’s Fitzroy recovery?” 

“Yes, Wolsey,” Henry says. “Won’t you do this for me?” 

Catherine stares the Cardinal down. 

“Your majesty, there is much for me to do—” 

“Surely there is nothing more pressing than the life of the King’s eldest son, illegitimate though he may be?” 

“I command it, Wolsey,” Henry declares. “You will go and bless the Prince and Henry Fitzroy.” 

“Of course, your majesty,” Wolsey says, swallowing loudly. “As you desire.” 

Before Wolsey leaves with Bessie, Catherine takes care to send Oviedo with them. 

“Stay by the door,” she whispers, standing closeby. “Have you and some man you trust go with you to Eltham, and never leave the side of the Prince, or Henry Fitzroy for that matter. Promise me, Oviedo.” 

“I promise, Queen Catherine,” Lina’s husband replies. “I swear on my life and everything I hold dear; I will not fail you.” 

“Thank you,” Catherine says. “I am sorry for this, but it is necessary. I will keep your family safe while you are gone.” 

He nods, and Catherine returns to Henry’s side, watches as Wolsey trails down the steps to join Bessie in the wheelhouse, and Catherine does not miss the mutinous expression he sends her way. 

He has gone too far, Wolsey. Threatening her life was one thing. But targeting the children was another. What happened to Henry Fitzroy is a warning, and Catherine knows this. Now she can only wait for the gardener to return, to come back with that bloody snake, and hopefully she can get rid of the cardinal for good. 

\--

Catherine makes sure to comfort Henry over the next two days as she awaits the return of the servant boy and the gardener. She stays by his side, day and night, offering comfort and good words, and while she does mean them, inside waves of anxiety roll about in her stomach. She cannot help it. If Wolsey caught them, if he offered them a better price—

But it seems that God has not forsaken her after all, for the boy returns along with the gardener, and in a sack they carry the snake that led to Henry Fitzroy’s accident. 

Catherine brings them before the King, and has them swear that this is the snake, that is foreign, that it is French. 

“Leave us,” she says, after they pale at Henry’s silence, trembling. Catherine does not blame them.

She moves in front of Henry, kneels before him and places her hand on his thigh. 

“Wolsey has betrayed us,” she whispers. 

She watches her husband’s jaw clench. “He has, Henry. And you know it. He is working on behalf of the French King—” 

“He is not—” 

Catherine pushes on, for she knows this is her last chance. Her only chance. 

“He is,” Catherine says. “Think, Henry. This is why Wolsey was against the Scottish marriage, so our daughter would be under the French King’s control, and they would have the chance to have a French bride in Scotland and to invade England. That is why Wolsey sent one of his pet snakes to Eltham, to try and rid you of a potential heir. He may have only targeted Henry Fitzroy this time, but that snake could have attacked our son. Your other boy with Bessie could have died, and he does this all to weaken you.” 

Henry stares into her eyes then, and for once she sees some sense of realization fill his dark pools, and he almost reminds her of her Harry then, of the man she had loved so much for so long. 

“He has convinced you to burn your people by the masses,” Catherine continues, voice almost trembling. “And they no longer cheer you in the streets as they once did. That is because of Wolsey and his false council, Henry. It is. This is Francis’ plan; to disrupt your reign, to lay claim to this land as the English did to the French. To overthrow you, and place a French Queen in Scotland so they control the entire land and expand their Empire. You know this to be true.” 

Henry still stays quiet. 

“Please,” Catherine says, letting some of her desperation show as her voice cracks. “Please, Henry. Listen to me. I have always wanted your people to love you. I have done everything I can for you. I love you and our children, and Wolsey wants them dead. He has betrayed you. Please, Henry. Please. Imprison him. Forsake him, before it is too late.” 

Catherine waits as Henry exhales wearily, rubbing his chin. 

He could either condemn her. 

“He says that Stafford has betrayed me,” Henry tells her. “That he needs to be arrested. He says that you desire him—that you love him.”

“Nonsense,” Catherine vows. “Henry, I fought for years to be your Queen, to be by your side. I have loved you through everything. Everything.” While God may frown at her, while the whole world may frown at her, Catherine cannot fail. She cannot. And so, she pushes on. “Please, Henry. Please, forsake Wolsey.” 

Her knees begin to tremble against the cold floor as she awaits his answer.

\--

Wolsey returns to the castle later that night, and Catherine meets him in his parlour. 

“Your grace,” he greets, dusting his red robes. “This is a surprise.” 

“Is it?” she questions. “Is it truly, Cardinal?” 

He sighs briefly. 

“No, I suppose not. You and I have always been in a competition. Each with our players, as though we are playing chess. You have Stafford, and I have the King.” 

Catherine watches him closely but says nothing. 

“Lord Stafford will be imprisoned and set to death,” Wolsey states. “He is a threat to the King.”

“I am afraid,” Catherine begins gravely, “That I cannot let you do that, Cardinal.” 

Wolsey scoffs, eyes her with scorn. 

“And what, pray tell, your grace, are you going to do to stop me?” 

Catherine leans forward, like a snake about to pounce on its pray. 

“Cardinal,” she says softly. “You seem very much mistaken about my character. There is nothing I would not do for those I care for, for those who are loyal to me. My family. Nothing.” 

“I have the King’s ear,” Wolsey reminds her, as if that has the power to hurt Catherine anymore. 

She breathes out a laugh. 

“I thought I did once as well,” she tells him. “And his heart. And King’s hearts, dear Cardinal, are fickle things. I thought that of all people, you would have learned from my example.” 

Catherine takes a step away from him, watches with cool satisfaction as some of his smugness seems to fade. 

“Guards,” she calls. 

Wolsey’s eyes dart to the closed doors. 

“This is a game, Wolsey,” Catherine says, her heart heavy. She cares nothing for this man, who has celebrated at her failures, who would see her fall without blinking. Who would displace her daughter and son. But she is sad that it has come to this, that this is what playing the game entails. “And you, my lord, have just lost.” 

The doors swing open, revealing the guards, and Wolsey gapes at her like a fish. 

“You are arrested, Cardinal Wolsey, on the King’s orders, for conspiracy to commit treason, amongst other charges.” 

The guards grab him, mindful that he is still a man of the Church, and Catherine does not lower her eyes. It would be cowardly to look away when she is responsible for this, no matter how much he may deserve it, no matter how else he has sinned. 

She is almost sorry, then. 

Almost. 

-

News of Wolsey’s downfall spreads across the palace like wildfire, and Catherine is not surprised when Edward eventually corners her. 

“I heard Wolsey was imprisoned,” Edward says, looking mildly flustered. “Imprisoned, Catherine.” 

His expression slackens when he notes her lack of surprise. 

“Catherine, what did you do?” 

“I can’t explain now,” she responds. “I will, I swear, but not now.” 

Things could change, after all. 

“Catherine, how—” His voice trails off. 

“I would do anything for my family, Stafford,” she interrupts. “Anything.” 

“Catherine, you should not have done this for me—” 

“I didn’t just do it for you, Edward,” she says. “I did it for Bessie, my children, Lina, everyone. Everyone. You were at risk, so I couldn’t tell you everything. I simply couldn’t.” 

“I understand that. But what will happen to him? To you? What will Henry do?” 

“I don’t know,” Catherine replies honestly. “I don’t know.” 

She is sure to keep her distance from him, lest anyone walk by. 

“But I know I am glad you are safe,” she whispers. “I’m so relieved, Edward.” 

And in his eye, she can see that he feels the same, that he doesn’t even have to say it aloud. 

ix. 

Henry, as it turns out, makes plain his plans for Wolsey rather quickly, and when Catherine hears them, she feels her blood grow cold. 

“You cannot torture a man of the Church, Henry,” Catherine protests, eyes widening. “Imprison, exile, perhaps execution—but not put him to the rack.” 

“I can do as I please, Catherine,” he interrupts. “And it would satisfy me to see his punished according to my desire.” 

Catherine stares at him, horrified. She wanted Wolsey removed from power, yes. She wants to protect her family and England from his corruption. But to see him tortured for no other reason than Henry’s pleasure does not sit right. 

A part of her wonders if he is so cross because Wolsey set that snake at Eltham Palace. That Henry wanted to avenge his son. But as Catherine watches her husband, she does not see righteous anger or a desperation to protect his family. No, Henry was mad that Wolsey dared to think another monarch as greater than him. This was for his ego, nothing more. 

Catherine intends to maintain her victory, that is for certain. If Wolsey need be executed for his corruption, she could issue the order. But to torture him when’s already been found guilty is not something she could ever justify or want to. 

“What would also satisfy me,” he continues, glaring at her. “Is another son to secure the succession.” 

Catherine grits her teeth. 

“Henry, I cannot control whether or not—” 

He slaps her across the face with such strength she falls over. Stunned, she raises a cold hand to her cheek to soothe the burn. She does not look at him as she rises from the floor. 

“Careful, Catherine,” he warns. “For you might end up with him!” 

She looks at him then and has never hated another soul as much as she does him. She knows not how she loved him once, how she thought he had good him in. 

The door to the council room pushes open, revealing Edward, who hurries inside.

“Your majesty—” 

He pauses at the two of them, his eye instantly seizing upon Catherine cradling her bruised cheek. At once, she sees how his expression darkens, how his hands curl into fists at his sides as he tries to restrain his fury. 

“Lord Stafford,” she greets, moving towards him, so she is now standing in between him and Henry. “Do you have news?” 

He does not appear to take heed of her words. He continues to stare resolutely at Henry, his jaw working dangerously. And Catherine – she cannot have him do something foolish now, after everything. Henry must not arrest him. 

“Stafford,” she repeats, forcing him to look at her. 

His expression is positively mutinous. 

“Do you have news?” she repeats again, urging him to calm down, to look at her, to see sense. 

His lips part. 

Stay with me, she thinks. Stay.

If anyone is to take issue with Henry for this, it will be her, and no one else. 

Edward clears his throat. 

“Leave, Catherine,” Henry says. 

She glances at her husband, who continues to remain unrepentant. 

She does. 

-

When Catherine returns to her chambers, she finds Maggie waiting there. 

“Catherine,” Maggie gasps, eyes widening with horror when she catches sight of her face. “What happened?” 

“Henry,” she replies simply, pouring herself a cup of wine and drinking it quickly. Her cheek throbs with pain and Catherine does not need a mirror to know it is swollen and bruised. 

“Why?” Maggie whispers, as if it were unbelievable or impossible. 

“I disagreed with him,” Catherine says, mouth twisting. “And I am not with child. It would seem one son is not enough for him.” 

Maggie says nothing. It seems she knows better than to try and offer her false comforts and claims that he would not do it again. She knew better than anyone how volatile the Tudors could be, how ruthless. Catherine did as well. After all, she was one. 

“You have done well, Catherine,” Maggie tells her. “You are a good Queen, a moral person—”

“Am I?” she questions sharply, rubbing her eyes. She drops her voice to a whisper. “Maggie, I have had purely Unchristian thoughts that would compel me out of god’s grace forever.” 

“What is it?” 

“I am sure you would understand, for everything that has happened since the Tudor’s came to the throne,” Catherine murmurs without any humour. “I wanted to see my husband dead.”

Maggie’s expression darkens as her lips part, but Catherine is taken aback by her gaze flickers to someone behind Catherine. Heart in her throat, she turns as well, only to find Stafford standing in the doorway, having heard every word of this conversation. 

“Edward,” she states plainly. 

He watches her carefully and without a word stalks up to Catherine, so close their chests almost touch. His eye is drawn to Catherine’s bruised cheek, and with a slow hand he tenderly traces the bruise with his forefinger. 

“You can’t,” Catherine whispers, having almost forgotten that Maggie is there. “We can’t. No matter what, he’s still the King. Still my children’s father. And we cannot go down this path. We cannot.” 

Still, he says nothing, with his hand eventually falling to her shoulder. He leans forward, and uncaring that his cousin is present, presses a kiss to her forehead. Catherine closes her eyes, tries to savour his comfort, his steady presence. 

“I know,” he agrees finally, stepping away. “I know.” 

Catherine does not need to look at Maggie to know she is shocked at this display of affection, of the casualness of their intimacy, and knows she is wondering when this occurred—she will always wonder, for Catherine will never tell her. Nor will Edward. She is sure of it. 

Catherine has gotten rid of her greatest enemy, and still Henry has not changed. But what can she do about it? She will not kill him. Nor would she ever order anyone to do it. No, that was unthinkable. 

No matter what, it seems Catherine is always underestimating her husband and how far he has fallen, how different he has become. He will never cease to surprise her. 

And Catherine as she stands there, knows that as long as Henry lives, he will never return to the man he once was, if he ever existed. He has become too consumed, and there is no saving him. 

There isn’t.

\--

Wolsey has been dead for two moons when it happens. 

Catherine is in her study, writing to Mary, to try and explain why she cannot come back to court, when the door bursts open. 

“Your grace!” the guard gasps, pushing open her door. 

Catherine stands, startled by the urgency in his gaze, his lack of decorum. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, setting down her quill. She moves to meet the man, stops abruptly when she catches sight of the blood on his hands, the dirt covering his clothes. 

Her usual guards surround the door, begin to issue apologies at the intruder but Catherine now recognizes the man as part of Henry’s standard. The standard that had just gone hunting with him, along with Charlie Brandon, Edward--

“What has happened?” she demands, grabbing her cup from her desk and bringing it to him, watches as he thankfully gulps the liquid down. 

“The King, your grace,” he gasps, chest heaving. “He is injured.” 

A chill runs up her spine. 

“Injured?” she repeats. “Speak, man!” 

“We were on the hunt, Queen Catherine, and there was a giant boar the King sighted – it all happened so quickly, there was blood, so much blood—” 

Catherine grabs a hold of his shoulders tightly, shakes him. 

“Is he alive?” she questions. “You must tell me! Is my husband alive?” 

“Yes, your grace,” he answers. She sees his face grow pale beneath all the blood and dirt. “We managed to carry his majesty back to the castle, where he is now settled in his rooms.” 

She lets go of him quickly. 

“Send for the physicians!” she calls out to the guards. “Now! The physicians and the barbers—tell them to meet me in the King’s chambers.” 

The guard nods but seems too stunned to move. 

“Now!” 

The guard leaves. 

Catherine looks at the dirty, bloodied man. 

“Sir, I must ask you one last favour,” she says. “I must ask you to send for my children at Eltham Palace – or find someone else to do so if you are too injured.” 

He nods blankly and Catherine cannot help but add: “Tell them to not ride too hard, for the Prince and Princess’ sake. They must take care of them both.” 

“Yes, your grace.” 

Catherine strides out of her chambers, begins to hurry down the hall, though she is careful not to run or sprint. Thankfully, there are few courtiers about in the hall, so there is little panic—

She stops in her tracks at the sight of Edward, Maggie, Lina and Mary hovering in a corner near the corridor that leads to Henry’s chambers. At least he is alright, she thinks.

“Catherine,” Maggie calls out, catching sight of her. 

She quickens her steps and glances around, notices that Thomas Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell and a few other courtiers are hovering on the other side of the room. Catherine feels her heart drop. 

“How many saw?” she whispers, once she reaches Maggie. 

“Many,” her friend replies, face worryingly pale. “Many have flocked to the great hall, no doubt, to spread the news. They saw the King carried in by several guards, bleeding.” 

Catherine at once spots the blood leading to Henry’s rooms – small splatters that seem to grow and grow the more she looks at them. Oh God, she thinks, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. 

“I sent for the children,” she says, lowering her hand at once. No one can see any weakness. No one. “Maggie, Lina, you must wait for them. Mary, please try and write to Meg, if you can.” 

She looks at her sister-in-law for the first time then, finds her tearless, if a bit stunned. 

“Mary,” she repeats. 

The younger woman turns to look at her, some awareness filling her eyes. 

“I will do it,” Mary responds quietly. Catherine watches as she casts a glance towards the corridor. 

“Maggie, Lina, if you would, please ensure that the Ned’s and Mary’s chambers are ready for them.” Catherine pauses a moment. “Their stay might be a long one.” 

Lina gently pats Catherine’s shoulder before walking away, accompanied by Maggie and Mary. 

Catherine then turns to Edward, who is already staring at her. 

“Did you see what happened?” she asks quietly. 

Edward’s gaze flickers down, then up, and down again. 

“Yes,” he replies, voice equally low. He meets her eyes again and subtly shakes his head. 

Catherine almost chokes, wants to fall into his arms and collapse onto the cold ground all at once. But she cannot. She will not. 

“My good Lords,” she declares, turning around to face the rest of the men. “We must all pray for the King and his recovery.” 

They all nod and murmur amongst themselves. 

“The physicians and barbers will be with us shortly,” Catherine continues. She hesitates, struggles to exhale the breath trapped in her lungs. “I will go and be with my husband, if you all would be kind enough to direct the physicians to his majesty’s rooms I would be grateful.” 

“Your grace,” Thomas Boleyn calls out, looking grim. “I am not sure that would be wise.” 

Catherine glances again at the blood on the floor. 

“I am certain, my lord, that my desire to be with my husband will outweigh any discomfort I might feel at the sight of his injuries. Thank you for the concern.” 

He nods and no one else makes an attempt to stop her. 

Catherine walks down the corridor, though Edward follows close behind. 

“Thomas is right, Catherine,” he murmurs, as she reaches the closed door. She hears Henry groan loudly behind it. “It will be a sight you shall never forget.” 

Catherine stares at him, heart in her throat, and knows that he does not expect her to not go in the room. He knows her well enough to know that she made her mind up, that she is strong enough. He only wishes to spare her pain. 

“I know,” she responds, sparing him a strained smile. But I must do it anyway. 

Catherine pushes the door open, and he does not follow. 

She finds Charlie Brandon shifting Henry onto the center of the bed, trying to position him carefully so he does not lie on his wound. Charlie blocks her full view of Henry’s body, but she does see her husband on his back, face covered with sweat and dirt from which he had fallen in. He appears to be barely conscious. 

She is careful not to step into any of the puddles of blood on the floor in case she slips. There is a strong smell of iron in the air. 

“Charlie,” she says, walking to the other side of the bed. “What can I do—” 

Now, Catherine can see the full extent of his injuries. His doublet and tunic have been entirely ruined, and there is a massive wound on his right side. Wound is not the right word. It is as though a massive chunk of flesh has been flayed off, revealing blood, bone and—  
Catherine looks away. 

“Your grace, you should not be here.” 

She shakes her head, tries to rid herself of her nausea. 

“Yes,” she protests softly. “I should be.” 

She meets Charlie’s wide grey eyes and is sure her own terror is reflected in them. 

“Try and get something to stop the bleeding, your grace,” Charlie says hurriedly. 

Catherine manages to find a spare tunic, hurries over to Henry’s side to press it against the wound in a poor attempt to stop the river of blood. It soaks through the tunic in mere moments. 

“It all happened so fast,” Charlie pants. “Henry’s cupbearer had spotted the boar and we went chasing after it. We thought it had gone, we got down from the horses, did not see—” 

“Twas not your fault, Charlie,” Catherine says, pushing against the wound. 

Henry wheezes loudly begins to writhe against the sheets. 

“Where are those blasted physicians?” she curses. Her hands are red and wet. 

“Catherine,” Charlie says. 

Catherine stops, looks at him. Something in his expression makes her heart drop all the way to her toes. And she knows. The look in his eyes tells her all she needs to know, even if—

Catherine glances at Henry, feels something twist and squirm inside her. 

She jumps as the doors burst open, relieving the barbers and physicians, and soon she is being ushered out of the room, even though she is a Queen, Henry’s wife. The doors shut, and Catherine can still barely believe that this is real, that it is happening. 

Charlie offers her his arm as they walk back down the hall to where the rest of the council men stay. 

“They are working on the King,” she announces. “I have sent for my children. I ask you all to pray for the King’s recovery.” 

They all nod warily, and Catherine lets Edward and Charlie escort her back to her chambers, for all they can now is wait. 

\--

After she has gone to the chapel and prayed for some time, Catherine returns to her study to find Edward waiting for her. 

He pours them each cups of wine, and Catherine sits beside him by the fire, stares intently into the flames. 

Her children have been at Eltham for close to a year. 

“I didn’t stop it,” Edward murmurs. 

Catherine turns to look at him. 

“What?” 

She sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows loudly. 

“I saw the boar,” he whispers, closing his eye. He looks calm and hollow all at once. “I saw it coming – I could have pushed him out of the way, done something, anything. I didn’t.”

“These past few hours scarcely feel real,” Catherine tells him, after pausing a few moments. “I am not sure how I feel or what to think. My mind is with my children and what this will mean for them—for England, if Henry does die.” 

She reaches for his hands, holds onto them tightly. 

“But I do know this, Edward. If you had done something, it could have been you instead. And that, that would have been an injustice.” 

She lets him look into her eyes and see that she means it with all her heart. 

“Henry was drunk,” she says. “He was deep in his cups and was in no position to hunt.” 

“We could have stopped him.”

“He wouldn’t have let you.” 

She sighs, circles her wrists. 

“What’s done is done, Edward,” she murmurs. “All we can do now is look to the future and try and salvage the present.” 

“Catherine,” he says. “I didn’t want to.” 

“Want to?” 

He looks down. 

“Help him,” he clarifies quietly. 

“Ah.” 

That is the truth of it, is it not? Catherine is not surprised by his words, and yet, there is something more, something he is not telling her. 

“Edward,” she breathes. “Was it your man who gave him the wine?” 

He does not look at her, cannot look at her. 

“Catherine—” 

“No,” she cuts in, closing her eyes. “No, I daresay some things are better left unsaid.” 

Catherine feels increasingly lightheaded as she sits there. He didn’t plan Henry’s death- she knows that in her bones. And yet—

And yet. 

He reaches for her hands, and without hesitation she links their fingers together. 

She only lets go when there is a knock on the door, and she watches as Maggie steps into the room, face grave. 

“Catherine,” the older woman utters. “It is time.” 

\--

Henry’s breathing is a heavy, stuttering thing when Catherine enters the room. She moves to his side without a word. Catherine reaches for a cloth left by the physicians at his bedside, gently wipes away the sweat at his brow. His eyes flutter at the movement. 

“Catherine?” he rasps. 

She’s reminded of how he used to sound in the mornings when they were first wed. How rusty his voice would be. She used to giggle at the sound of it. 

“I am here, Henry,” she tells him. 

He manages to force his eyes open, though they still appear to be unfocused. 

“There is an heir,” he whispers. “To follow after me.” 

“There is,” she affirms. “Our son and daughter.” 

Henry groans as he lifts his hand, so it brushes against her thigh. 

“Do you think you are with child again?” he asks. 

Catherine could laugh. 

“I don’t know, Henry,” she replies. Somehow, she doesn’t feel angry or surprised. 

“One son,” he sighs, closing his eyes.

“Your grandmother had no other children but your father, Henry,” Catherine says. “And God preserved him, brought him to be King of England with you to succeed him.” 

A small, amused sound escapes his dry lips. 

“You’ve always known what to say, Catherine.” 

He coughs. Blood splutters out of his mouth, coating his beard. Catherine leans over and soothes him, cleans it. 

“It was too late for us,” Henry whispers, opening his eyes. “It was too late. Too much--” he coughs again, sags back against the pillows. “Too much has happened.”

Catherine watches him closely. He has hurt her and betrayed her and threatened her. Catherine may not love Henry anymore – a part of her will never forgive him for all he has done, all the promises he has forsaken, but—

She cannot help but pity him, now that he is on his deathbed.

“I am sorry,” Catherine tells him. 

“For what?”

Catherine looks down at the bedclothes. “For not letting you grieve over our son. The one we lost after Flodden. I am sorry for that.” 

Henry closes his eyes as he sighs. “So many,” he murmurs. “So many sons lost to us.” 

“I know,” Catherine replies. “I carried them.” 

Henry seems to wince a little at the reminder. Catherine dabs his sweaty forehead with her cloth. 

“I have loved you,” Henry whispers, eyes dragging open. They are foggy and dazed; his grip on her wrist lessens. 

“In your own way, I am sure of it,” Catherine tells him. “I loved you more than a woman had ever loved a man; I gave you my body, my devotion, my heart, my blood, my tears. It wasn’t enough for you, Henry.” 

He coughs loudly. Some blood splutters out of his mouth. 

“Shh,” she says, dabbing at his cheek with a cloth. 

“And yet,” he gasps, panting. “You are still here.” 

“You are my husband,” she replies, quite simply. “After everything, I can do this for you.” 

Henry closes his eyes, seems to relax further into the pillows. 

“Arthur,” he rasps. “I was always—” he coughs again. “I was always jealous of him.” 

His voice is barely comprehensible. 

“You loved me because Arthur did,” Catherine concludes. “You wanted me because you wanted to best your brother.” 

Henry seems to nod and shake his head all at once. 

“Catherine,” he says, forcing his eyes to open. “Catherine, I must—I must know, just this last time, before I departure to God—did you lie with him?” 

Catherine feels something enclose around her heart; whether it is a wall or a wave of emotion, she is not quite sure. 

“Did you lie with Joanna?” she returns slowly, just as he had on their wedding day. 

Henry eyes her and laughs loudly, blood in his throat as his wound oozes, and dies. 

Catherine watches the life leave his body and feels nothing. No – worse than that. 

She feels relief. 

“Oh, Henry,” she says mournfully. A part of her still aches deeply for the people they once were, the love they once shared, no matter how long ago it was, how temporary. She clasps their hands together and leans her head against them. 

“I did love you,” Catherine tells him, though he can no longer hear. “But my child will be a greater King than you ever were.” 

She presses a kiss to the ring on his hand, then lets it go, letting it fall limply to his side. 

Catherine has been at the bedside of two of her husband’s and watched them die. It is strange to her, that she mourned more deeply at her first’s than she did her second’s. 

Catherine wipes her eyes, braces herself before she leaves to meet the courtiers. She glances at Henry, his eyes still wide, mouth open, blood still running, and shakes her head. It will do no good to look the past in the face when the future is right at her doorstep. She looks away, forces herself to the doors. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

She pushes the large wooden door open, feeling strangely calm. It seems as though the entire court has come to await the death of their King. She looks through the crowd, spots Maggie and her children, Thomas Boleyn and his daughters, Charlie and Mary, amongst so many others, and then Stafford. Of course, he is there. Catherine’s heart squeezes at the sight of him, but she grows somber when she catches sight of her daughter beside him, as well as Lina, who is carrying Ned in her arms. 

Catherine moves towards them, bends down to press a kiss to Mary’s head before grabbing a hold of her hand. 

“Pape is gone to heaven, Mary,” she whispers. Her daughter blinks at her, uncomprehending. “I need you to be brave, can you do that for me?” 

Mary nods. 

Catherine smiles at her quickly, before rising, allowing Lina to slide Ned into her arm, carefully balances him against her side. 

“The King is dead,” she declares, watching as many in the crowd gasp. Few appear to be truly distressed. They all knew what Henry had become, that it would only get worse. But the heir is a child. Catherine understands their concern, she does, and she will ensure a smooth succession for her son and daughter, for England. “Long live the King.” 

“Long live the King,” Stafford echoes loudly, and soon the entire hall is following suit. 

“Long live the King!” they echo, and Catherine knows as Mary squeezes her hand, that they will be alright. 

\--

The proceeding events pass in a blur. Catherine talks to various councilmen, Boleyn, More, as they send physicians to clean Henry’s body. An announcement must be made to the people, letters must be written. 

She spends time with her children, tries to soothe them when she can. She spends the first hours comforting them both, particularly Mary, for Ned is too young to understand what has happened, the crown that has now fallen on his shoulders. After she watches Mary drift off to sleep, she leaves the room.

She is a widow. She is free. 

“Meet me in the gardens,” she whispers to Edward in passing. 

Catherine manages to shake herself free of her guards earlier in the evening, as well as her ladies. It seems no one wants to follow a widow around – or maybe they believe she needs some air to clear her senses. Catherine does not know. 

Catherine walks to the farthest edge of the gardens, where they are hidden from prying eyes by a massive willow tree. Edward is smart enough to find her there, to know—

“Catherine,” he gasps, stalking towards her. 

She is there to meet him, openly, willingly, weightlessly as their lips crash together. 

Catherine moans with delight at the feeling, sinks her hands into his hair. He leads her backwards until her spine hits the tree trunk, and it is as natural as anything to lift herself up, to let him wrap her legs around his waist and clutch him too her. 

There are no mountains between them now. She can accept his love, and he hers. Catherine is not a believer in wild, passionate love anymore. Love should not consume, but compliment. You should want them, not need them. 

But desire fills her stomach, nonetheless. It warms her body, makes her crackle. 

“Edward,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his neck, his brow, anywhere that she can reach. They pause. In the darkness, she can scarcely see his features, it is only the light of the moon that allows her to see the white column of his throat, the shadows of his eyes. 

“I want you.” 

His lips part, as if in disbelief, as if this is not real. 

She presses a lingering kiss to his lips; gentle, peaceful. 

I know, she wishes to convey. I know. 

When she sinks on top of him, a little while later, she throws her head back in wild abandon. She cannot shout or exclaim her pleasure, for they must still be careful, but she can give them this. This is not duty or a last resort. She is here because she wants to be and that makes all the difference. 

x.

Ned cannot be crowned. The ceremony will have to be postponed for years; the entire privy council agrees to that at least. 

In the days following Henry’s death, Catherine scarcely finds a moment alone. She is surrounded by councilmen, some she likes, others she does not, but there is Stafford and Charlie at least. 

There are letters to respond to, royalty from across Europe expressing their condolences, and there is Meg, writing from Scotland. Meg, who is coming to England again. 

She plans the funeral with the council. It is an arduous affair, an expensive one as well, but they must remind the people of the future. There is an heir, the country is stable. Or it will be. 

“Madam,” Thomas Boleyn echoes, drumming his fingers against the table. The rest of the council grows quiet. “The late King Henry did not change his will from when he last went to France.” 

Catherine stills. She has prepared for this conversation ever since she heard Henry was injured. 

She waits for him to finish. 

“That means, your grace, that you are the regent of England until your son, Prince Edward, comes to majority.” 

Catherine glances at the councilmen whose expressions remain impassive. Not the most promising of starts, but better than outright contempt. 

“Indeed,” she states, careful to keep her tone even. “I would rule England in my son’s name with the help of this privy council.” 

She sits up straighter against her chair. 

“Are there any objections?” she begins. “I assure you, my lords, I will guide England into stability as my son grows. With your help, we will ensure she and its people prosper and grow. My son will be a true Prince, and a noble and generous King. Does anyone have any objections to this?” 

The council room remains quiet. 

“It would seem, your grace,” Thomas Boleyn comments quietly, a wry twist to his lips. “That the mood of the court will improve.” 

The others may be confused by his words, may think he is referring to the King’s death and the court mourning, but Catherine knows. She remembers and feels her lips twitch. 

“So, it would seem, my lord,” she replies. 

-

The day they bury Henry, the sun shines brightly in the sky, as if God was also eager to rush in this new era for England, with her children at the front. If she recalls correctly, it had rained when Arthur was lowered in the ground. 

She feels a pang of sadness at the reminder. She stands in the Cathedral with Mary by her side, their hands intertwined as she balances Ned in her arms. They are the epitome of the dutiful family, dressed in black garbs as they mourn a man who wreaked havoc on his country. 

Catherine feels close to nothing as the mourning bells chime and could shudder at the irony. 

Few cry at the funeral, and Catherine cannot help but hope that when her own time comes people will mourn her more truly than Henry. 

-

The summer brings hot days made all the hotter by the black garbs she wears, but it also brings Meg, who returns from Scotland to pay respects to her late brother. 

She dotes on Mary and Ned, swings the latter up into her arms and presses a loud, wet kiss to his cheek. Meg has always been free with her affection. 

After several hours of meeting with the council and attending court – the festivities are obviously mild given the circumstances of Meg’s return – Catherine and Meg retire to her bedchambers. Mary, their other sister, joins them for a while before she goes to see to her newborn babe. 

“Much has changed since I was here last,” Meg muses, a wry twist to her lips. 

Catherine chuckles lightly. 

“That is true.” 

Meg tilts her head. 

“Are you happy?” 

At Catherine’s expression, Meg huffs softy. “Besides Henry, of course. Those old men aren’t trying to take your son from you, are they?” 

“No,” Catherine says, recalling her friend’s own misfortune. “No, they seem to have accepted me as regent and the suggestion that Mary weds your James.” 

Meg cackles. “Good. It is a suitable match.” 

Catherine hums in agreement, silence falling among them.

“Many men have tried to ruin us,” Meg comments, sipping at her wine. “And look at them now.” 

Catherine lets out an amused murmur in reply.

“Do you remember,” Meg prompts, “When you told me to set my course in the heavens and follow it?” 

Catherine tilts her head. 

“All too well,” she responds. 

“Could you ever have imagined either of us would end up here?” Meg continues. “Both of us, regents for our sons? Head of our countries?” 

“No,” Catherine murmurs. She thinks back on the girl she was when she finally became Queen. “I loved Henry too much to think on anything else at all when I became Queen, and before that.” 

Meg’s expression softens and grows more understanding all at once. 

“You survived him,” her sister-in-law tells her – or is it former sister-in-law, now? Catherine is not sure. 

Catherine should be surprised at Meg’s frankness, but she is not. She may have loved her brother once, but Meg more than anyone knew how his character had changed over the years, had been a victim of his greed. 

“Yes,” Catherine says. “I suppose I have.”

There’s a moment before Meg laughs. 

Catherine looks at her then, notices how tears have filled her eyes. 

Meg waves her hands when she catches her looking. 

“I am not mad, Catherine,” Meg tells her. “It’s just—it’s just, Arthur would have been a great King, wouldn’t he? I haven’t been able to stop thinking of it.” 

“Yes,” Catherine agrees readily, thinking of her long-deceased first husband. By God, had it been over twenty years since he had died? It suddenly felt like only yesterday. “He would have.” 

Meg wipes her eyes. 

“And now, your Edward will be an even greater one,” Meg says. 

Catherine thinks of her son, so young, and yet she can see the handsome man he will become. 

“As will your son,” Catherine returns. 

Meg smiles.

“It is a good thing,” Meg muses, “that our sons will be surrounded by women is it not?” 

Catherine laughs. 

“Meg,” she says. “There is very little I would agree with more.” 

\--

Meg leaves a week after, once they agree to the proposed engagement between Mary and James.

Catherine is sad to see her go, but they will write and support one another, as they have throughout the years. It will be easier now, since they are secure in their positions.   
After Meg leaves, Catherine attends various council meetings before retiring. Somehow, she finds herself in the rooms Henry used to inhabit, opens the door to the balcony. 

Catherine rests her elbows on the balcony, breathes in the cold air, allows it to refreshen her. Everything has settled into place. God has allowed this to happen, has given her a chance to right the wrongs, to correct Henry’s tyranny. 

Her daughter will be Queen of Scotland, her son King of England. The continent will be secure, united. That will be her life’s work – her legacy. Henry is dead, Wolsey too. Catherine is regent. Edward is here. 

Catherine overlooks the gardens, the wind sweeping through her hair. She loves this country still, after all this time. Loves its people. She had promised them a worthy prince, and she has given them one. A man who will grow to be good and just and constant. A stronger man than Arthur, but with his good heart and mind. A disciplined man, a kind one, just like his father. 

“Catherine?” Edward asks from behind her. 

She looks over her shoulder to glance at him. She knows not how he knew where she was, finds she does not care.

“Come,” she says, turning her head forward again. “Stand with me.” 

His steps are slow and measured before he reaches her. He mimics her pose; rests his elbows on the balcony ledge. 

“Look,” she says. “It is beautiful, is it not?” 

Catherine feels his eye on her but does not return his gaze. 

“Yes,” he agrees finally. “A perfect Camelot.” 

Catherine cannot help but scoff. 

“Camelot,” she muses, remembering Arthur, remembering those few golden years with Henry. “A fairy tale.” 

“You do not believe in it?” 

“No,” Catherine responds, pondering. “Not anymore, anyway. Camelot is an ideal, a perfect, fleeting world. We do not have that.” 

“Could Ned not build it?” 

“I’ve found that trying to attain ideals often distracts you from the truth,” Catherine replies. “It is better to look the truth in the face than realize it before it is too late.” 

A few moments pass. 

“I want something permanent, for my son,” she says, then pauses. “For our —” 

“Don’t,” he interrupts, though not unkindly. “I cannot claim him, so I would rather we not say it.” 

Catherine looks at him then, at the barely concealed sorrow on his face. 

“You love him,” she says. She places a hand on his shoulder. “And he will love you.” 

He nods curtly, though he avoids her gaze. 

“Do you wish to return home?” she asks, her stomach turning into knots. “To never come back to court? To leave England?” 

“No,” he says, almost instantly. “And abandon you? I would never. Never, Catherine. You, Mary, or Ned. Or the rest of my family.” 

Her hand clenches on his shoulder. This is a man grown professing his devotion to his Queen, to his Prince and Princess, to her. This is a man who has follied and failed and injured and been injured. This is a man who understands the weight and magnitude of a promise and intends to see it through. This is truth. 

“I know that,” she tells him, smiling slowly. It dies quickly, gives way to anxiety. “But will this be enough for you?” 

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?” 

“I can never give you peace,” Catherine states. “I can never retire with you to the countryside or marry you or give you more heirs to your estates. My life will be dedicated to my children, to my people – our people. Peace, quiet, a life for only us two, it is not something I can give to you.” 

He seems to ponder her question for a moment, before reaching for her other hand. 

“It is enough,” he tells her intently. “It is.” 

Catherine pats his hand, before letting go of it. 

“Very well,” she says, taking in a deep breath. “I suppose that answers my question.” 

She pauses. There is one more secret she must tell him, than she has not yet told a soul. She has not bled yet. She knows not, if there is a babe, who sired it. She cannot be certain. And yet, despite the challenges that lay ahead, they have each other.

It is enough. 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my head canon that Catherine gives birth to another child, a daughter named Catherine as well, whose nickname is Kitty. And since she isn't sure who the father is, I decided not to make up my mind about it either. 
> 
> Here's a few moments I didn't get around to including in this chapter that happened but I didn't write because of life and lack of energy:   
> \- Catherine has another miscarriage shortly after Charles leaves England, though she keeps it under wraps   
> \- She almost tells Rosa the truth out of guilt but doesn't   
> \- Ned's first word is Mama   
> \- countless letters between her and Mary 
> 
> Thanks for everything guys! I appreciate it. Hope you enjoyed :)


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